


Heart of Arson

by ltoadreamer



Series: What Burns Bright [1]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sexual Content, slowburn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-17
Updated: 2018-09-18
Packaged: 2018-11-02 00:23:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 42
Words: 159,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10933092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ltoadreamer/pseuds/ltoadreamer
Summary: Ulfric has faced many years since the Great War but there is a face that has hung in silence in his mind since then. All those years later, finding that face again would draw new memories to be made in the wake of the war he waged against the claws of the Empire. And the matter of other claws that would sink into the very flesh of Skyrim itself brought its own problems, along with a mysterious stranger. The path of the future was not certain. But the fresh return of that face in his mind brought questions. Ones he felt needed to be answered.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Just FYI, this is also posted on my Fanfiction account too. Same name, same story. Enjoy. And don't forget to comment please.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just FYI, this is also posted on my Fanfiction account too. Same name, same story. Enjoy. And don't forget to comment please.

                The first time he saw that face, it had been standing behind that woman, book and quill in hand.

                He looked to be in his early twenties, but with Mer, one could never really be sure.

                And he could remember the way that face, that Mer, that _Thalmor_ , looked away when his interrogator set sparks alive in her hands, just before she would press them to his body, as though the mere sound of his screams of agony gave her immense pleasure.

                Even after he finally broke, he saw that face, that Mer, that Thalmor who hated standing in the presence of torture but did so by duty every day after with that woman, that Thalmor interrogator.

                Her name was Elenwen.

                But the name that belonged to that face he never learned.

                He didn’t want to learn it, even after he escaped from the clutches of the Aldmeri Dominion and fled.

                The Imperial City had fallen to the clutches of those Altmer bastards.

                And it was his _fault_.

                And when he came home to Windhelm, his father, his mother, even the best friend he had found while fighting in the war did not blame him for cracking. The Thalmor knew how to break even the strongest wills.

                Even as he tried to recover from the horrors that had happened to him, outwardly, he remained strong, and in the call for aid from the Jarl in the far corner of Skyrim, he came.

                All he demanded in return for his help was the free-worship of their god again.

                And he reclaimed the Reach.

                Only for his help to be returned with betrayal.

                And in the deep silver mine of that city he helped liberate, he learned of the death of a great man.

                His father had died.

                And was forced to deliver his father’s eulogy in the form of a letter, smuggled out of the mine with bribes and bargaining.

                And a month after, under the cover of night, one of the few men that he trusted came and broke him free from the prison, to bring him home to a city in mourning.

                He did not take up the title of Jarl by choice.

                He did not sit down in the throne where his great father had once sat and ruled his people.

                The ones who put the mantel of Windhelm upon his shoulders were the people themselves, crying out in grief and in anger.

                And so he ruled.

                A short handful of years later, his mother went to join his father in Sovngarde.

                Leaving him alone in that cold city, the only one he trusted never far from his side.

                And so he grew strong again.

                The nightmares that would sometimes attack him even during the day started to become less frequent.

                The awful tremors that would wrack his body with phantom pain in memories started to still.

                The scars left behind on his skin itched less and didn’t feel so raw.

                The physical reminders of his time under the hand of the Thalmor would ache though.

                He would never be able to truly escape from what they had done to him.

                And in his strength, in his pain, he thought deeply.

                Considered the options, the paths that could lie in the future.

                And when the High King breathed his last breath, the Moot gathered.

                It was only gathered as a formality to the people to grand the title to the direct heir of the previous High King.

                But that boy that the Jarls hummed and sighed and nodded their heads to agree that the title would pass on was just no man who had the gall to lead his people like a king, preferring to entertain his wispy, soft spoken bride.

                And he spoke out at the Moot.

                He dared to suggest breaking away from the Empire, become an independent nation that could govern itself, one that its people could be proud of and live the way they always should have.

                The Nords were the hearty people of Skyrim. And Skyrim should be ruled by the Nord’s way.

                But there was little support to his suggestion, to his _request_.

                In the months after, he researched and he planned.

                Until, he came back to the jewel city of Skyrim, warmly welcomed by the High King and his court.

                And he challenged the boy king as to the right to the throne.

                If he was not fit to lead their country, he was not fit for the throne.

                And the young High King of Skyrim, shocked by the allegation, accepted the challenge.

                He had no choice.

                If he declined, he risked losing face in the eyes of his people by the act of cowardice, and a new Moot would be called, and he would have been disposed of as High King.

                It was an unfair challenge, he was a grizzled war veteran with the power of the Voice under his tongue, and his opponent was a young man with limited martial training.

                He made the death of Torygg, High King of Skyrim only in namesake, a very quick one.

                Young men did not deserve torture as he had faced.

                And as he left the Blue Palace, the weeping cries of the dead king’s wife followed at his back.

                None would stop him though, as the act had been done in the old way and such was legal in Skyrim.

                And there on the path towards the gates of the city, he saw that face again.

                That golden face that had stood behind that woman, book and quill in hand. That face that flinched at the sight of torture.

                That face.

                That face didn’t recognize him as he walked past.

                And for the first time, he heard the voice that belonged to that face.

                Singing.

                The verse that echoed after him was from a song of old, one that was rare-known and not often sung.

                But he recognized it none the less on the tongue that belonged to that face.

                And as he hurried back to Windhelm, dodging the Imperials which had been ordered by the military governor stationed in Skyrim by the Empire, he heard that verse over and over in his mind.

                And that face haunted him for what might have been days, might have been months after that gate closed behind him.

                Yet at the same time, that song soothed the nightmares away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **The Song  
>  Beauty of Dawn – Elder Scrolls Online (End Credits)  
> The Verse Sung**  
> These are days and nights of venom and blood  
> Heroes will rise as the anchors fall  
> Brave the strife, reclaim every soul  
> That belongs to the Beauty of Dawn


	2. Chapter One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just FYI, this is also posted on my Fanfiction account too. Same name, same story. Enjoy. And don't forget to comment please.

                There was no response from Balgruuf as to Ulfric’s call for rebellion against the Empire, but as far as his sources had informed him, the Jarl of Whiterun had also given no response to the opposing Imperials either.

                The center of Skyrim was a neutral territory for now.

                And without Whiterun picking allies, both sides were evenly matched in the number of holds which joined their claim, the Imperials holding power with their dirty Septims over the West, and Ulfric had the loyalty and honor of the people in the East. The end result of the war likely hung in the balance with whoever ended up claiming Whiterun.

                Ulfric just hoped that the rival of his youth would make the right choice.

                As much as he personally did not care for the man, he would prefer to have Balgruuf as an ally rather than an enemy.

                He was a fierce fighter and a smart man.

                Ulfric needed all the fierce fighters and smart men that he could.

                And in the morning, Ulfric would be taking a small troop of his soldiers to retake Fort Amol from a nest of mages that had infested there. Once that was done, they would be en route to visit Darkwater Crossing, a mining settlement which was responsible for quite a bit of corundum ore that went into making the steel for their swords and armor. He had received a message from the acting leaders of the settlement, husband-and-wife duo Verner and Annekke, that there had been an unusually high number of travelers around Darkwater lately. It had been Galmar’s suggestion to send out a few soldiers that way to check it out, but if Ulfric and his men were going to be so close to the settlement because of Fort Amol, it would be an insult to his people to not stop there to show his concern in person.

                Ulfric had come to notice that when a leader displays open care about the worries of his people, those very people are more willing to fight for that leader.

                But in the depths of dreams, he was no leader.

                He was a young man in shackles again.

                Prisoner to the Thalmor.

                Ulfric couldn’t remember how many times his mind dragged him back to that awful place, relived those horrible memories.

                It was in the cage of his own mind that he was forced to remember that not only was Elenwen a skilled interrogator, a skilled torturer, she was also a skilled healer. She knew her way around methods to break a man’s mind, to drive him to the point of giving up entirely, willing himself to die. It was then, and often only then, where the cruelly of ‘kindness’ as she called it was shown.

                And she would heal what she had fought to damage.

                Ulfric remembered that sometime she would bring over the young Altmer male who was assigned to the task of writing down every word that spilled from his lips and tell him, in a tone that was sickeningly sweet, “Come, I think you should practice.”

                That face that flinched every time Elenwen ripped sounds of pain from his lips only grew focused, farther from afraid and closer to calm in those moments where Elenwen encouraged him to develop his skill in restoration magic.

                Ulfric remembered the careful way that the Altmer male would avoid looking Ulfric in the face.

                He remembered the great amount of caution that the hands which belonged to that face took to not touch the Nord’s skin when that golden skin would draw light into the shadows of the interrogation hall.

                He remembered the way those hands shook.

                And he remembered that he thought that Altmer boy looked only a handful of years older than himself.

                Young.

                The Aldmeri Dominion were training their own in the means of cruelty from a young age.

                Ulfric also remembered how well that Altmer improved his restoration magic with Ulfric to practice on.

                Ulfric tasted blood in his mouth, sobs too weak to shake his body any more as tears streamed down his cheeks. Ulfric might have felt pity if he had seen his own state on another man, but this hyperawareness of himself only filled him with shame.

                Elenwen stepped back, admiring her handywork before she tilted her head faintly to the side in consideration. And then she gazed back to her aid.

                “Come.”

                He heard the shift of a chair, and the soft sound of Thalmor boots across the dirty floor of the interrogation chamber.

                Elenwen stepped further out of the little cell, leaning against the frame of the door to observe as the male came to stand before him and very quietly, deliberately slowly, he tugged off his gloves.

                From his position, Ulfric had a good view of those hands.

                The movements of this man were recognizably different from Elenwen.

                She was efficient but she did not take any care for caution in front of a prisoner who had been in her custody for an untold amount of time.

                That face though…

                It was like he was approaching a trapped animal, not with the intention to attack it, but rather with the intention to spring the trap loose.

                And quietly, those golden hands reached out to him, the owner of those hands crouching so he could focus his attention more. So close that he could almost feel the warmth of his hands, all without even touching.

                And then, the long thin fingers that belonged to that face glowed golden over weeping wounds and broken muscle and pained bone.

                And for a moment, Ulfric felt bliss.

                Only for a moment before the ingrained knowledge of what was still going to happen the next day settled back into his thoughts and he hated Elenwen and her aid even more.

                The glow never disappeared as those hands slowly moved from one wounded area to another.

                The cords of a lute quietly tilted into his mind.

                A shallow awareness that this was not real.

                “Lady Elenwen,” a voice spoke up.

                This was a memory.

                The interrogator’s attention was drawn away.

                “What is it?”

                The words but not the voice itself came to his mind.

                _Sorrow reigns_

_Over fields of red…_

_Spirits pace_

_Through the shadows cast by their graves_ …

                This was not real.

                This was a dream.

                The Altmer whose hands glowed glanced over his shoulder quickly, and when he turned back, Ulfric saw fiction as the expression turned serious with effort and those hands moved to hover over his arms, drawing strength into them and forcing the acceleration of wounds at his wrists that had mostly gone ignored in favor of the shackles’ sting.

                _Darkness strives to blind the strong_

_But Faith will guide our swords…_

_Loyal hearts we’ll stand as one_

_And fight with shields of Hope_ …

                This was not real.

                This was a dream.

                That face checked over his shoulder again before drawing his hand away from Ulfric’s skin.

                Only briefly.

                And the splintering sensation in his skull, from physical pain—no—phantom pain, psychological agony, and shameful sorrow was swept away like wind to a loose shred of paper.

                It took that pain and tossed it to the sky like a bird being released from the hands that held it captive.

                And he heard that voice, the one that he remembered belonged to that face, singing the last verse.

                _These are days and nights of venom and blood…_

_Heroes will rise as the anchors fall…_

_Brave the strife, reclaim every soul_

_That belongs to the Beauty of Dawn…_

                And finally, the eyes that belonged to that face, eyes he had only noticed in the event of passing them on the streets of Solitude, met his.

                They were the color of amber.

                Shades between the color of gold ore and the warm red veins of heat between the dark soot of coal.

                He remembered once finding a rock near the riverbed as a child that was that exact color.

                “Wake up, Ulfric.”

                It was Galmar’s voice that made his eyes open to the contents of his room, the sheets beneath him soaked with sweat just the same as his pillow was soaked with tears.

                Sometime during the night, the soft dyed blanket had been lost to the floor.

                The gruff voice of his housecarl reached him, carrying the words, “Welcome to the world of the wakeful, friend, glad to have you back.”

                Ulfric sat up and threw his legs over the edge of the bed, rubbing one eye with the heel of one hand as the other rested on his long-time friend.

                “Are the men ready?”

                Galmar huffed.

                “You are the one who needs to get ready. Break your fast. If they are not ready by the time you are prepared to set out, there will be others more willing to take their place.”

                Ulfric knew these words, repeated to him in the twilight of the days when he had nightmares and Galmar found it better to wake him early than let him suffer in the confines of his mind any longer.

                “Thank you, friend.”

                Galmar was not a man who smiled kindly with his mouth, but the slight nod he gave and the small softening of his eyes was the closest second to the expression, all before he turned to lend Ulfric his privacy.

                By the time Ulfric was composed and properly arranged to make himself public, stepping through the doorway of his wing and into the war room, he could smell hot oats and seared pork.

                What he could not smell, as he sat down, was the soft-boiled eggs and the buttered bread.

                It was a good breakfast to have for any day, but he would be among his men, soldiers who did not have the same opportunities to eat as well as he could, and as his appetite always was after nights full of uneasy dreams, he ate lightly.

                His stomach would thank him for the decision after he had been on horseback for a handful of minutes.

                The high-sun meal would be among the men and women who looked up to him, and they would eat as equals.

                And when Ulfric returned to Windhelm in the evening, he would give the men the coin to eat a well and hearty supper and he too would eat a well and hearty supper in the main hall of the Palace of the Kings.

                When Ulfric stood from the table, his body at ease with the warm comfort of food in his belly, Galmar gave him a nod and together, the two war veterans stepped outside of the Palace and through the city to the stables where his men were gathered already, some of the newer soldiers among the lot almost visibly buzzing with energy at the thought that they would be accompanying Ulfric Stormcloak himself on an adventure to retake the Fort of Eastmarch.

                The men who had already done such assignments before were pleased with themselves that they could repeat such events.

                Galmar gave him a few words of advice, as a more seasoned soldier to a fellow, as he mounted his horse.

                And with a sharp squeeze of his heels, Ulfric took his men away from the capital of Windhelm to seize Stormcloak territory from the selfish rabble who preferred magic to the strength of one’s sword arm.

                With the men that he had, the nest of mages were culled with little effort and ultimately among the dead, only an unfortunate few were among the numbers of the men and women in his hold’s armor.

                They cared for their dead and wounded and then they ate their lunch.

                Twelve men and women who were not assigned to remain at the fort but rather return to Windhelm with him accompanied him on the south road towards Darkwater Crossing.

                It was on that road when the sound of an arrow zipped through the air and sank into the throat of Ulfric’s horse, making the beast throw him off in its panic and its pain, and they found themselves surrounded by Imperial soldiers and for every one of his men, there was at least five who fought against him.

                He had too many good soldiers with him.

                And he had already lost more than he wanted to lose earlier at Fort Amol.

                And Ulfric Stormcloak, the leader of the rebellion, ordered his guards to stand down.

                Collected among them was a man who was caught trying to steal an Imperial horse shortly before the ambush.

                They were all bound, and with the Imperials’ wise fear in Ulfric’s ancient power of the Voice, he was gagged.

                Then, they were loaded up in the carts.

                Ulfric honestly couldn’t imagine that the Imperials would bother taking him and his guard all the way to Cyrodiil, parade them in front of the Emperor like some prized dogs, but he could believe that General Tullius might hold the desire to cull the rebellion quietly.

                Executing the head of the rebellion away from the eyes of the bulk of his forces and later presenting his very head would scream out the loudest, ‘look. Look at what has come of the man who dared to rebel. Look at what will happen to you if you dare to do the same.’

                Cowards.

                And he turned out to be right as he saw the carts approach the gates of Helgen, a known Imperial fort in Falkreath.

                He observed the Thalmor by the gate, the high voice that he easily recognized as Elenwen’s demanding to Tullius custody of the prisoners, thinking that citing the White-Gold Concordat as reason enough.

                Tullius wasn’t about to allow a man of such importance as Ulfric Stormcloak to slip through his fingers though.

                And as the carts rolled through the town, he saw gold, gleaming elven armor, two Thalmor soldiers, half-dragging, half-pushing a prisoner of their own.

                He would have assumed it was a local merchant by the handsome quality of his clothes, caught doing something shameful enough to warrant being dragged to Helgen, but then he caught sight of the skin of the man as the cart passed, the color of gold showing through the rips in his clothes made by previous rough handling at the hands of his captors.

                This man was an Altmer.

                What had an Altmer done to warrant such attention from the Thalmor themselves?

                And as the carts came to a halt and everyone stepped out, the approaching guards with their prisoner came to join them.

                And Ulfric saw the Mer’s face.

                That face.

                It was that face.

                The face of Elenwen’s aid.

                The face of that Mer singing in Solitude.

                The face of this prisoner.


	3. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just FYI, this is also posted on my Fanfiction account too. Same name, same story. Enjoy. And don't forget to comment please.

                For a brief instant as the Mer was brought past Ulfric to go to the back of the line-up, their eyes briefly met.

                In those amber eyes, a shade more red than the normal yellow or green hue most Altmers had in their golden gaze, Ulfric found no recognition in them, just as they had the first and only glance they had at each other back in Solitude. This Mer with that face didn’t recognize him as the man who had once been subject to Elenwen’s idea of interrogation, who had spent countless hours after sessions healing him, never once touching him.

                There was nothing in those eyes.

                Just one man seeing another man as they went past each other on the street. Just one prisoner seeing another prisoner as they lined up for the block.

                To that Mer, they were equals as strangers.

                But to Ulfric, this Mer that now stood not three paces behind him was a memory of the past that had made itself at home in the present, one that once had held power over him, but now they were kin in binds. That was the only reason they were equal now.

                They were both to be sentenced to death.

                For Elenwen to decide to execute her own aid.

                He wondered what he had done.

                The moment the Mer prisoner was in custody of the Imperial guards, the Elven ones started to walk back up the hill to return to the Thalmor group they had come with.

                And the young Nord with the list began to call off the names of Ulfric’s guards, verifying that they were all accounted for. That no one had been… ‘lost’ on the way to Helgen.

                All of them were sentenced to death.

                The pause after the fleeing horse thief was shot down was a long, uncomfortable one before the Nord cleared his throat to read that last name. A deep breath.

                “Loriel Elsinlock. Wanted fu…gitive of the Summerset Isles. Sentenced to death.”

                The Nord knew the Mer he was sending off to be executed. Ulfric heard the pain in his hesitation.

                A friend maybe.

                This Imperial soldier probably knew him from Solitude before he was found out to be a fugitive.

                Ulfric didn’t have much time to think over it any further before General Tullius approached him to give him a lecture and the Stormcloak did his best impression of boredom to make the commander of the Imperials more furious.

                “You started this war and plunged Skyrim into chaos. Now the Empire is going to put you down and restore the peace.”

                As though it would be so easy.

                The sound echoed across the sky.

                Far away but blood-chilling.

                “What was that?” the young Nord with the list asked.

                “It’s nothing, carry on,” Tullius brushed it aside, allowing the execution to proceed.

                The priestess of Arkay was two words in when the rest of her words began to be drowned out by…

                “A-chf! A-ch! Fuc-chf! Ow…”

                Ulfric glanced over and found Ralof’s expression screwed up to keep from laughing, meanwhile it was the elf among the group of prisoners who was bowed over from his sneezing fit, his hair hiding his face until he stood up straight and tall with a sniff, his expression suggesting that he still had a tickle in his nose.

                One of the soldiers glared at the elf before he cut into the rest of the priestess’s rites, “For the love of Talos, shut up and let’s get this over with.”

                And so the executions were to begin.

                The headsman’s axe fell, and the Imperial-sided townspeople were unwisely proud, and the Stormcloaks who were prisoner were understandably angry. And somewhere in that, he thought he heard a soft, voice that was unfamiliar to him murmur something. He couldn’t tell what though.

                “Next, the high elf.”

                That curious sound came again. And sounded louder.

                Closer.

                It made Ulfric feel uneasy.

                It made everyone uneasy.

                At the apologetic voice of the young Nord, the elf stepped forward and knelt at the block without aid, ready to face his death.

                The headsman was adjusting his footing, the muscles of his arms tensing in the pending movement of lifting the axe into position when that cry came loud and clear.

                It was accompanied by the sound of wings larger than he had ever heard.

                And then he saw it.

                Black as night and terrible as death itself, the beast screamed in rage as it descended upon the tower, the impact of its landing throwing everyone off balance.

                Ulfric knew it was a dragon before it opened its great jaws and released an unknown Thu’um to the sky.

                Clouds welled and gathered and for a moment the sky turned the color of blood before the sight of great stones began to descend from the sky, right before the dragon let out a Thu’um he recognized down at the group of Imperials and their prisoners.

                The Altmer was hurtled away from the block just as the headsman was knocked down.

                And in the confusion, Ulfric lunged forward and slashed his bindings on the drawn weapon of a nearby Imperial soldier.

                “ _Run!_ ” He ordered.

                And Ulfric knew he had only ran so fast in his life once before.

                Fleeing the Thalmor after having been their prisoner.

                This time, he did not run so far under the cover of the chaos, dodging into a tower and his men surging after him.

                One was unaccounted for.

                He was about to shout to the men present when he saw two bodies fall through the door and slam it shut after them, their backs against the door just in time before something or someone slammed into the wood, trying to get in.

                Ralof.

                And again, there was that face.

                The Altmer.

                “Thank Talos you made it,” Ulfric breathed, glad to have everyone accounted for now, even if he did have to be in close quarters with that face again.

                “Jarl Ulfric, what is that thing? Could the legends be true?” Ralof asked, feeling stillness against the door and he stepped away. The elf was looking back to the door, his hair windblown and a scuff bleeding on his forehead from hitting the ground with the help of that dragon’s Unrelenting Force Thu’um.

                “Legends don’t burn down villages.”

                Outside, there was a sharp rumble and Ralof looked back to the Mer.

                “Hey, let’s get those binds-”

                A sharp crash from above made everyone buckle and the Altmer immediately looked up the stairs, “Binds can wait, we need to move before that thing brings the whole tower down on our heads,” the Mer said, his voice strong and carrying well, just like a bard’s song could carry in an area with proper acoustics.

                But this was not a place made for a bard.

                This was a war-zone.

                And this Mer was in the middle of it.

                The ground shook in the tower from the impact just outside the door.

                “Up the tower, let’s go,” Ulfric instructed, Ralof and the Altmer taking to the stairs.

                “Just need to move some of these rocks,” was the words from one of his soldiers who had been on the landing above, possibly seeing the two, all before there was another crash and a cut-short shout.

                Stones clattered down the stairs, and Ulfric saw the top of the tall Mer’s head, sky visible through the new opening that had been made in the tower.

                “See the inn on the other side? Jump through the roof and keep going, we’ll try to follow when we can,” he heard Ralof.

                “Godspeed to you,” he heard the Mer tell him before Ralof hurried back down the stairs.

                “Our friend is going to try to make the jump to the building next door,” he said.

                Ulfric only nodded and came to the door, readying himself and looking back to make certain the others were prepared for the race of a lifetime. And when they were all prepared, he threw the door open and every one of them bolted.

                They all scattered to avoid being targeted by the dragon, easier to avoid fire from its maw, and as soon as Ulfric found a door to the Keep, he dashed inside, praying to Talos that the others would find a way out or a way into some form of safety.

                A few long moments later, another soldier stumbled in, blood all over his armor and Ulfric caught the man before he fell.

                The dying Stormcloak, a young man on his first mission for Ulfric, was able to meet the Jarl’s eyes for just a moment before those eyes dimmed. And the light went out.

                Carefully, Ulfric placed him down on the ground and closed the boy’s eyes.

                The Jarl of Windhelm prayed to Talos to guard the boy’s soul on its way to Sovngarde, his prayer finished before he heard the door slam open, bouncing against the wall, and then heard it bounce against the wall again before it finally slammed shut.

                When Ulfric turned around, he saw that Altmer first and then Ralof on his heels.

                Ralof had his hands on his knees as he tried to catch his breath when they stopped in the room, the Altmer’s breathing a fair bit more even than the other’s.

                And Ulfric found their eyes linked for a very long moment.

                Not a glance but a blatant stare.

                And the Altmer’s expression turned quizzical.

                “I know you from somewhere,” he said, his tone curious.

                And Ulfric scowled.

                About time he did.

                “And I know you. We met thirty years ago.”

                As soon as he said the date, the Altmer’s eyes grew wide and annoyed and he gave a sharp bark of a laugh.

                “Thirty years ago? Unless you’re one of the Skaal, I don’t think so. Thirty years ago I was in Solstheim, hiding from the Thalmor and their stupid war,” he spat.

                And Ulfric blinked in surprise.

                What?

                Ralof cut in, curious. “Jarl Ulfric, you know this Mer?”

                The expression of the Altmer paused and a slow sense of realization dawned across his face. “ _You’re_ the reason the Thalmor even _found_ me!!”

                “I would hardly call your capture my fault.”

                “You don’t think that by killing King Torygg that the Empire wouldn’t send their military _governor_ to Solitude? Or that the Thalmor would want to hold _council_ with Tullius about the _war_ and get to enjoy an added bonus of discovering a long-time wanted _fugitive_ singing in a _tavern_?” he demanded, his voice slowly going louder and the golden skin of his face, all the way down the neck of his shirt, steadily growing redder with anger.

                Alright, so perhaps that was Ulfric’s fault.

                “Fuck!” The Altmer shouted, his bound hands thrown out in exasperation and he turned away, huffing angrily.

                That was certainly the last thing he expected out of any Altmer. The way he had vented, Ulfric had certainly thought the elf would come at him, but for him to _swear_ like a Nord, it was almost laughable.

                Ralof glanced at Ulfric in concern.

                Outside, the dragon still rampaged.

                And then he heard the Altmer let out a long sigh.

                “Thirty years ago, you were in the war, weren’t you?” The elf finally asked, his back still facing Ulfric, and upon his next question, his shoulders dropped as he turned back to him. “Were you captured?”

                The look that came across Ulfric’s face must have been answer enough and the Altmer’s lips pressed into a thin line.

                “Then the face you know belongs to my brother, the only one of us stupid enough to become a Thalmor.”

                Ulfric found himself skeptical at his words and his face showed it.

                “You don’t believe me? How’s his healing magic?” The elf demanded.

                He bristled at the question, at the memory that wanted to resurface.

                “How’s his healing magic?” the elf repeated slowly.

                Ulfric didn’t want to answer, he could barely keep his breathing under control. He didn’t want to remember. He didn’t want to, but the image of those hands hovering over his skin, glowing and visibly closing the open wounds on his body in a matter of possibly seconds was right there.

                “Why does healing magic matter?” Ralof cut in, standing between the elf and his lord, ready in case he had to defend his lord.

                “Because healing magic is what Laronen excelled at that I am the absolute _worst_ at.”

                Ulfric was grateful for Ralof, for his voice dragging him out of the memory.

                “I don’t believe you.”

                “Cut my binds and I’ll give you your damn poof.”

                The demand startled Ulfric.

                He was offering proof, but at the cost of the security those binds offered Ulfric.

                If those binds came off…

                Ulfric found himself growing calm with realization.

                Both he and Ralof were not only armed but wearing armor.

                The elf was weaponless and wounded and wearing only commoner’s clothing.

                And even if the Altmer tried to attack with magic, a destructive spell still required time to charge, enough time that one of the two Nords could close the distance between them and kill him with a single blow.

                If the Mer was telling the truth, then it would only put Ulfric’s mind at ease.

                And if the Mer was lying, Ulfric would still be at the advantage.

                He breathed out.

                “Ralof, cut his binds.”

                “My lord?”

                Ulfric only lowered his eyes to his guard and the man nodded, stepping over to the Altmer and slitting the leather that held his wrists loose.

                The Altmer rubbed his wrists for a brief moment, the skin raw from the bindings being too tight, and then he undid the belt that held his jacket closed, allowing it to fall to the ground.

                The Jarl felt his breath catch in his throat when the elf pulled up his shirt to his chest. There, in a spot Ulfric was very familiar with, the shape of a wound he was very familiar with stretched over the elf’s toned abdomen, the result of a lightning spell cast while the caster’s hands were in direct contact with the target’s skin.

                He remembered how Elenwen would caress her hands over the skin, just before she charged the spell and let it loose on him. He remembered how badly it hurt.

                He remembered that the very first time he felt it on his skin, it hurt so much that he couldn’t even find breath in his lungs to scream.

                And on this Altmer, this wound had been made only hours before.

                And unlike in Ulfric’s case, it had not been healed in any form.

                The Thalmor hadn’t done it to interrogate this Altmer.

                They had done it just to hurt him.

                In the time between it being made and now, the wound had stopped bleeding on its own, but from all the recent movements the elf had been doing in the act of fleeing for his life, the wound had reopened itself and was bleeding freely again.

                This elf put his hand against the center of the wound, long fingers outstretched where the aid’s would have been a close together, and his hand began to glow.

                Lack of aptitude in magic was one thing that no one could fake, not even with a great deal of effort, and this elf certainly lacked significantly in his capabilities within the school of restoration.

                The glow of his healing magic was dim, and where the aid could have closed that wound entirely a minute, maybe longer, this elf stood there healing himself for a full minute and only managed to make it stop bleeding.

                This was not the aid.

                So this Altmer was telling the truth.

                “What is your name?”

                The elf looked up, allowing his concentration to slip and the glow of healing magic sputtered out. He let his shirt fall back into place.

                Ralof looked back to Ulfric, curious.

                “Loriel Elsinlock.”

                Ulfric nodded to himself, committing this to memory.

                “And what is the name of your Thalmor twin?”

                He looked about to answer before his lips twisted into a smile and a laugh escaped his lips. “It’s Laronen. And he’s not my twin. He and I, we are two of a set of identical triplets.”

                Now there was a definite surprise.

                It even took Ralof by surprise.

                Running into rare twins in Skyrim was an occasional occurrence, but to find _triplets_ , and not even _identical_ ones, was almost unheard of among any race!

                The elf, Loriel, grinned in great amusement at their expressions. “You can only _imagine_ how my mother felt when she went into labor and got more than she _ever_ bargained for.”

                Ulfric wasn’t sure he even _could_ imagine the depth of _that_ sort of surprise and he only let out a breath of a laugh.

                Before the three of them were once again reminded that there was still a dragon running amok in Helgen by the whole Keep shaking.

                “We should get out of here,” Ulfric stated.

                Ralof and Loriel both seemed to agree with that idea.

                “Take Gunmar’s gear. He won’t be needing it anymore,” Ralof offered to the elf, looking to the dead Stormcloak soldier.

                It was better to have three men armed and armored than two and a civilian.

                “Let’s see if I can even fit the chainmail,” Ulfric heard Loriel mutter as the Jarl went to check the barred door.

                It was locked.

                If there was one thing that Ulfric never carried and needed the most now, it was a set of lockpicks.

                And the gate on the other side couldn’t be opened from their side.

                So it looked like their choices were to wait for the dragon to stop attacking the fort, for the dragon to bring the Keep down on their heads, or for someone with the key to the gate to come.

                When he looked back to his company, Loriel was pulling his blue merchant’s shirt down over the chainmail shirt, and then pulling his jacket into place.

                It looked like the chainmail just barely fit him, especially in the shoulders.

                The elf was likely going to be needing help getting it back off though, but Loriel would cross that particular bridge once he got to it.

                Then, picking up the Gunmar’s axe, he slipped it into his belt.

                “So what do we do now, war-geniuses?” the Mer asked with humor in his voice.

                “We either get brave enough to go back out into the fray, or we get some company from the Imperials,” Ulfric answered.

                And it turned out that they didn’t need to wait very long, because before Ulfric’s sentence even ended, both Ralof and Loriel heard a sound beyond the gate.

                The sound of a door being slammed.

                The three of them hid around the edges of the room beside the gate and Ulfric heard the voice of the Imperial captain.

                “Get that gate open!”

                The three of them looked to each other as the gate started to lower, all of them with their weapons ready.

                And the moment it was down and the captain and a legate stepped into the room, the fight was over before it began.

                Loriel took the captain’s sword in trade for Gunmar’s axe and Ralof unlocked the door, allowing them all to move forward, farther away from the fighting outside and deeper into the Keep.

                Killing the Imperials in the storeroom was almost as easy as Loriel managed to catch them by surprise because his clothes muffled the sound of the chainmail while his long legs carried him faster than either of the Nords with him. By the time they reached the fight, the elf cast a final slash of his sword across the chest of his target.

                “Look for any potions. We might need them.”

                “If there was an alchemy table in here I could have made some,” Loriel noted as he inspected a braid of garlic.

                “Let’s focus on immediate results, shall we?” Ulfric suggested lightly.

                The elf shrugged and the three of them went about searching for potions, the elf checking the shelves and cupboards and Ralof checking among the barrels and sacks. Ulfric kept an eye out.

                “So why were you a wanted fugitive?” Ulfric heard Ralof ask.

                “On a scale of one to dragon, how mad do you think the Aldmeri Dominion would be if the Thalmor Hall of Records went up in flames?”

                Ulfric wanted to laugh.

                Ralof did laugh.

                And Ralof was the one who found the potions.

                And then they moved on.

                And in their travels through the Keep, they collected two more Stormcloak soldiers from the torture chamber and put down a handful more Imperials.

                Ralof and Loriel had been a bit further ahead of Ulfric and the others in crossing the drawbridge when the Keep shook hard and Ulfric had to jump back in the same instant that the two of them had to jump forward, dodging rubble from the Keep under the dragon’s attack not only smashed the bridge but barricaded the path as well.

                Through the stones blocking the way, he could hear Ralof and Loriel’s voices, shouting back to him.

                “Keep going!” Ulfric shouted to them, “We’ll find another way out!”

                He hoped they heard.

                Either way though, the two of them could only go forward.

                As for Ulfric and the other two, there was no other way out but back the way they came, not unless the dragon decided to make another opening.

                Ulfric looked back to the two remaining with him, a swordmaiden with a Warhammer and a man with an axe and the colors of Dawnstar wrapped around a wound on his upper-arm.

                “There’s only one way out now,” he told them, hoping his expression was not as grave as he felt.

                And so they went back.

                He only felt the Keep tremble one more time before they returned to the place where he had started, and the three of them went through the gate that eventually lead to a room where Imperial soldiers would have been borded.

                Being in such close proximity to the door that, if Ulfric recalled correctly by his mental map of the exterior and interior of the Keep, lead to the outside, if the dragon decided to cause chaos to this area of the Keep, they would be able to make it outside easily.

                And so they waited.

                And for a very long time, everything was still.

                The three Stormcloaks waited for an hour before the man checked outside and announced that the coast was clear.

                And without the threat of the dragon, they left the Keep and stepped into the afternoon sun.

                Helgen had been utterly destroyed, the dead burned by dragonfire or crushed by rubble, buildings in shambles, and flames still rising from the ruins.

                This once handsome and humble town and fort had been decimated.

                And as they left the fort to go to the Falkreath Stormcloak Camp, Ulfric found himself thinking about Ralof and Loriel.

                And he prayed that Talos might shield them from harm.


	4. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just FYI, this is also posted on my Fanfiction account too. Same name, same story. Enjoy. And don't forget to comment please.

                Ulfric came to realize as he and the two soldiers he escaped with rode back to Windhelm on horseback that Loriel never did remember where he had seen the Jarl from.

                Funny how what was so fuzzy to one person’s memory was so crystal clear in his own mind.

                It was growing dark outside by the time they had skirted around Ivarstead and came across Pinepeak cave, a place Ulfric remembered wanting to explore when he had been young and on his way to High Hrothgar to train to become a Greybeard, but also a place he never had the chance to explore. He wasn’t stopping just for the opportunity to explore the cave, but to rest the horses and let the two soldiers get some sleep.

                They all needed it.

                The only issue were the two bears, and even that was easily managed.

                The soldier wearing Dawnstar colors around his wound took to setting up the fire while the woman took care of the bodies of the beasts. Ulfric did not ask for food back at the Falkreath camp, their rations already looking overtouched, and so the three of them settled for bear meat. And when he took first watch so the other two could rest, an arrangement Ulfric had insisted upon, he went outside and tended to the remains of the two dead hunters, placing a pelt over each one.

                They had been ready to fight a bear, but not two, and they had died as the result.

                The Jarl could only hope that someone would come looking for the two dead hunters who looked like they had died earlier in the day. Perhaps tomorrow or the next day, someone would.

                By then, the Stormcloaks would already be gone.

                And when morning came, the Jarl fresh from his turn in sleep, the three of them rode fast across Eastmarch.

                Word that the Jarl had returned traveled fast on the lips of the guards, and as Ulfric entered the city, Galmar was the first to greet him, looking stern and angry but relieved all at once.

                He had been worried, after all Ulfric had been gone for the better part of three days when he should have been back before sundown the very day he left Windhelm, and if he were killed, it would either fall to Galmar to continue to lead the Stormcloaks or the Imperials would make one hell of an effort to claim Windhelm and that would be the end of that story.

                But Ulfric was alive.

                And Galmar clasped a grateful hand on his Jarl’s shoulder, the younger man giving that strong hand a light squeeze.

                “It is good to have you back.”

                “It is good to be home,” Ulfric agreed.

                The two soldiers left his company to report to the captain of the guard and in turn, Ulfric headed back to the Palace of the Kings to give Galmar his own form of report. He needed to know what had happened, and better yet, Galmar needed to know that they had a new problem to deal with in Skyrim, one that might be larger than even their war.

                Dragons.

                Had Galmar heard about it from anyone else, he would have assumed they had taken part in skooma and would have suggested to them to take a dip out by the docks to sober up, but Ulfric was one man who Galmar knew did not have an active imagination outside of his dreams and his nightmares. If he wasn’t sure something was a reality, he wouldn’t tell it like it was a reality. And this thing with the dragons, Ulfric was damn sure about.

                “So now there’s a dragon on the loose.”

                Ulfric had come to learn over his long years that where there was one, there was always the possibility of more.

                The Jarl rubbed his mouth as he thought deeply.

                If he had left the Greybeards on good terms, or at least better terms than the ones he _had_ left on, he would have gone to ask Arngeir his thoughts on the matter, but the likelihood of the old masters welcoming him even to ask questions would be slim.

                “I want every fort and camp that we have better armed, and more rations sent to them as well. Give instructions to the camps to move closer to caves, so they can seek shelter quickly. I don’t want to lose more men than what is absolutely necessary,” Ulfric told him and Galmar gave a definite nod before his friend clasped his shoulder and gave it a squeeze.

                “The audience you requested is due to arrive this evening,” Galmar reminded and Ulfric nodded.

                And in his present state, he was in no fashion to entertain.

                A hot bath, a change of clothes, and a good meal were in order, in that order as well, and as Galmar sat down at the desk to begin his forging of orders, Ulfric went to recreate himself for his coming company.

                The Archmage of the College of Winterhold was willing to humor him with discussion over dinner about sending down a mage who could better train their healers, and for this willingness, Ulfric was grateful.

                Leaving his clothes hanging over the edge of a chair to be collected by the maid, Ulfric sank into the water of the bath that was prepared upon Ulfric’s return, the water no longer hot by any means but it was still comfortably warm, and he soaked away the aches in his muscles before using one of the artesian-made tonics to scrub himself clean. The wedge of soap smelled faintly of honey and mountain flowers, blue petals barely visible among the rest of the material and when he felt satisfied with himself, he drew himself from the scuzzy water, dried himself, and dressed himself in one of his long bathing robes so he could return to his own room and put on some real clothing.

                A good lunch was waiting for him on his desk when he reached his room, still hot, and as he carefully arranged himself in his good formal wears, he absently ate just enough to tide him over. Jorleif had prepared a variety of alcohol for the dinner conversation, some of Dunmer origins and Ulfric wondered if his steward had also opened that crate of Firebrand Wine as well.

                Fixing his braids, he settled down at his desk to read through the reports that had been left, messages from the Stormcloak camps and forts and holds, and Ulfric picked up his quill to write a reply to the Jarl of Winterhold who was hoping that after the Civil War was over that they might be able to formally discuss rebuilding Winterhold. It was a wishful hope, and personally Ulfric believed that the city should have been rebuilt years ago.

                With having the heart and loyalty of three of four costal holds, Ulfric knew that it would be wise to gift power to the weakest hold that he had. Even Falkreath and Morthal were more successful and lively than Winterhold.

                Yes, as soon as the war was over, Ulfric would offer the best aid he could to the Jarl of Winterhold to rebuild and make the city a city again.

                The Archmage himself seemed quite pleased with Ulfric’s willingness of compassion towards his city and with their agreements made to send down one of the college’s best instructors in the school of restoration, the old Dunmer was willing to give Ulfric’s letter directly to Jarl Korir upon his return.

                And the Jarl of Windhelm was content with these acts of peace.

                The less he had to fight against others to achieve means of success in this war, the better.

                And the Jarl of Windhelm managed to sleep in relative peace the next few nights before his nightly tossing and turning returned and he let himself slip back into the habits he had before, sleep until dreams woke him up and stay awake the rest of the day, or dream until Galmar would rouse him from his troubled rest.

                More often than not, it would be the former.

                Once or twice, he heard that last verse in his dreams, often being the last thing he heard before he woke up on his own accord. That song on the voice of that Altmer behaved to his mind like the sun was upon his skin in the morning. He would hear the song, feel the change of temperature, and he would wake up.

                One night, Ulfric dreamed that Ralof, the elf, and he were back in the halls of Helgen’s Keep, a dragon bringing stones crashing down at their heels. And the moment the Keep stopped collapsing after them, that elf would turn and give him that amused grin, and the moment Ulfric found himself smiling a little in return, he found himself waking to the sun on his skin.

                And for a long time, the Jarl laid there among his sheets and blankets and as the day warmed the room, he allowed himself to sift about his brain absently and connect his conscious nerve endings to the rest of his body.

                He felt tired, as he always felt when he woke up on his own terms, but he felt _rested_.

                Waking up feeling rested was a rare treat for him. And it was still early enough that he could meditate before he went to pay his respects to the Temple of Talos, all before going about his duties as a Jarl.

                The dream about Helgen brought back thoughts of the dragon as he dressed though.

                No doubt it was still lurking in the shadows of Skyrim, waiting for just the right moment to descend upon the Nords of the land, bringing with it its great and terrible Thu’um. But strangely enough, Ulfric noticed that there had been no whispers of dragons. Not since Helgen. For that, he was grateful.

                He couldn’t help but wonder though, just how long would it be before he heard rumors of dragon attacks. He knew of locations where the remains of dragons were supposed to be, in fact there was one just south of Kynesgrove and that was the closest one that he knew of to Windhelm.

                It was hard to push away those thoughts as he settled himself down to breathe deeply and calm himself, find a word in dragon’s tongue to focus on.

                A deep breath, and then another.

                One of the first things Ulfric had been taught up in High Hrothgar was not how to use a Thu’um, but rather how to understand the language. All forms of Dov language were available to the Jarl of Windhelm, written and verbal, but his own use of the Voice was limited.

                Meditate as he might, he had never managed to master another Thu’um outside of the two he had learned under the guidance of the Greybeards.

                He needed to choose one word to focus on.

                A word he needed.

                _Su’um ahrk morah_.

                Breathe and focus.

                Paarthurnax was the one Greybeard Ulfric had never gotten the opportunity to meet.

                If he had never left, there would have been six Greybeards.

                Instead, there was only the four in High Hrothgar, and the master who meditated at the peak of the Throat of the World.

                _Su’um ahrk morah_.

                Breathe and focus.

                The word he needed the most was _Drem_.

                Peace.

                _Drem_.

                _Su’um ahrk morah_.

                Breathe and focus.

                And Ulfric found peace in his meditation, eyes closed and relaxed.

                And he was calm when he finally stood to go pay his respects to the Temple of Talos.

                The Priest and Priestess there greeted him, kind and warm and quiet, and he knelt in front of the altar and prayed to Talos to lend him strength. He prayed for a long time in the peaceful quiet, and when he felt an odd sense of warmth in his chest, a feeling that told him perhaps his prayer had been heard, then he finally stood and lent his thanks to the guardians of this small sanctuary in Windhelm.

                Before he even reached the door though, he was suddenly struck by the feeling of breathlessness, like he had just received a blow that had knocked the wind out of him. And Ulfric blinked in surprise.

                _What was that_? He asked himself as the feeling disappeared.

                He took a deep breath and pondered it before he shook off the worried feeling that had come with that sudden sensation, and then he stepped out of the temple.

                Despite the peacefulness within the temple though, Ulfric found it to be less than peaceful outside of it, and Ulfric was aware of the cause as soon as he heard the verbal onslaught, making the Jarl of Windhelm take a few steps in the direction opposite of his intended destination to witness.

                Galmar truly did need to speak to his brother about his drinking habits, because Rolff was already sloshed and angry and there was a young Altmer mage that was receiving the brunt of his wrathful shouting.

                And Ulfric found himself observing the Mer traveler, his cheeks turning a deep shade of bronze in controlled anger as he stood his ground against Rolff’s bellows, and the memory of the Altmer back at Helgen creeped back into the forefront of Ulfric’s mind as he remembered the way the elf turned red from cheeks to chest in wrath rather than the same hue of bronze that this Altmer was going. He wondered if there was any reason between the differences in their angry blushes.

                Ulfric was about to call out to Rolff, get his attention and make him shut up and leave the elf alone when a great sound cracked across the sky like thunder and the ground shook hard as a result.

                “ ** _DOVAHKIIN!_** ”

                Dragonborn.

                And Ulfric’s eyes shot to the direction of the Throat of the World.

                The _Greybeards_.

                Something had happened and they had heard it.

                They had _felt_ it.

                And Ulfric wondered if that had been what he had felt too.

                That breathless sensation.

                _Dovahkiin_.

                Dragonborn.

                And in the days that followed, Ulfric learned that there had been another dragon attack, this time at the watch tower outside of Whiterun. And that dragon had been killed.

                _Dovahkiin_.

                Dragonborn.

                With the coming of the dragons had caused the coming of the Dragonborn of legend as well.

                Talos protect them all.


	5. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just FYI, this is also posted on my Fanfiction account too. Same name, same story. Enjoy. And don't forget to comment please.

                In the weeks that followed after the Greybeards very vocal announcement of the coming of the Dragonborn, there had been increased sightings of dragons and more and more signs of dragon activity.

                Places that were rumored to be home to dragon remains were stood corrected as they no longer were home to remains but living dragons as well. And Ulfric was grateful that he had sent word ahead to the forts and camps and holds under the Stormcloak banner to arm themselves better and seek better shelter if they were out in the elements.

                One Imperial camp in the Rift had been burned to the ground by a local dragon and as far as Ulfric was aware, the dragon had yet to be killed either.

                And then there was the rumored Dragonborn.

                There was not much known about the Dragonborn himself except for the three things that all the rumors about the Dragonborn had in common: that he was a man, that he was very tall, and that he was entirely shrouded by his strange armor.

                As far as anyone knew, only Whiterun had been graced by the Dragonborn’s presence, that was a fact for certain, but there was also rumors of a tall man entirely hidden by his armor going through Ivarstead on his way up the 7000 steps to High Hrothgar.

                A week later, he heard that a man of that same description passing through Morthal, and a few days after was spotted in Riverwood.

                It seemed that the Dragonborn was being kept busy.

                From the rumors Ulfric also got to hear, the Dragonborn had killed at least two dragons in the hold of Whiterun, one in Morthal, and another near a Nirnroot farm not far from Ivarstead.

                And then, as Ulfric walked the streets of Windhelm with Galmar, discussing matters of the city, there was a terrible sound in the distance to the south.

                Galmar had never heard the sound a dragon could make, and his startled reaction only suited Ulfric enough to state, “Believe in dragons now?”

                His housecarl skulked and huffed, putting away his weapon that he had drawn on instinct. “I’ll believe in them when I see one. Especially once I put my axe through its head.”

                _No, friend, I don’t think you would really want to see one_ , Ulfric thought.

                It wasn’t long after that a guard hurried to him.

                “My lord, there’s been a dragon sighted at Kynesgrove!”

                Kynesgrove.

                _Fuck!_

                If there was any time to swear, it would be now, and Ulfric stepped past the gate, Galmar’s hand closing around his wrist and that was as far as he went, seeing black wings flying away from Kynesgrove and heading north, north-west of the city. That big black bastard of a dragon flew right over the mill to the west. In the south though, where Kynesgrove rested just barely in view of the city from the gate, Ulfric could see movement in the distance, a dragon circling and bringing down flames.

                It was attacking something.

                Or something was attacking it.

                Ulfric watched on baited breath, counting the seconds in between each Thu’um that he heard and each Thu’um that he saw. For each Shout that he saw, there were two Shouts that he heard. Someone was attacking the dragon as a dragon.

                Dov verses Dov.

                No.

                Dov verses Dovahkiin.

                Dragon verses Dragonborn.

                The Dragonborn was in Kynesgrove.

                And then, the dragon’s flying shadow disappeared, and for a long while after, there was only one Thu’um that he heard, echoing across the landscape like a rumble of thunder in the distance.

                And then there was nothing but stillness.

                Ulfric held his breath, straining his eyes to try and see anything that might have been happening, but there was nothing he could see.

                There was stillness though.

                And if Ulfric had learned anything about dragons from Helgen, it was that a dragon didn’t stop until either everything in its sight was dead.

                Or it was dead.

                And with the close quarters Kynesgrove held to Windhelm, that meant that if the dragon had won that fight, it would either retreat to lick its wounds or it would turn its attention to Windhelm.

                The Jarl of Windhelm stood in deathly silence, housecarl at his side and all the guards watching with the same intensity as him for a very long time.

                But there was no sound other than the distant rush of wind.

                No sound of wings nor Thu’um, no sight of smoke rising in the distance.

                There was only the single inn and a few other small buildings in Kynesgrove, and if Helgen was any example, if the dragon had won that battle, the buildings would have been burning as well.

                The Dragonborn had won that fight.

                “I want a patrol to head to Kynesgrove. I want every sign of that fight observed and brought back. If there are any dead or wounded, I want the wounded cared for and the dead brought back for inspection. Immediately,” Ulfric ordered.

                “You heard the Jarl,” Galmar said sharply.

                And the men jumped into action, the next shift that was supposed to be sent out to Kynesgrove taking up the task and they set out quickly while Galmar and Ulfric went back to the Palace of the Kings.

                Ulfric felt anxious.

                The Dragonborn was so close to Windhelm, which meant that there was a chance that the Jarl might have an opportunity to meet the man of legend himself and perhaps pose the question of the Dragonborn joining the fight to free Skyrim.

                It was a chance that Ulfric was anxious to try and seize.

                He needed strong allies, and the Dragonborn himself would be among the strongest.

                If the count was correct, the Dragonborn had now killed five dragons.

                Talos only knew how many words of Thu’ums there were to learn.

                The Jarl knew that a Dragonborn was supposed to be able to absorb not only a slain dragon’s spirit, but also absorb their knowledge, allowing the Dragonborn to be able to quickly master a Thu’um.

                Five dragons dead and the Divines only knew how many words there were for this Dragonborn to master.

                His head was spinning from how hard he was thinking about all this and he sat down at the desk in the War room, his face resting in his hand and he breathed deeply.

                He remembered the ruins of Helgen.

                It had been over a month since the first dragon attack, and this was the second he had witnessed, the first one from afar but it was still too close to the city that he loved.

                The city that was his.

                Ulfric was so nervous with anxiety from the wait to hear anything back that he could barely eat his supper, even with Galmar doing what he could to ease his Jarl’s nerves with some good mead and some short, cheap talk of old things that would have made him laugh but now only drew small, tight smiles.

                And then he heard the door of the main hall open and he was on his feet quickly, seeing two men of Stormcloak colors approach, a scout and a soldier.

                “Jarl Ulfric, we’ve brought back the report for Kynesgrove,” the soldier told him, the written report ready in his hands and Ulfric took it to read.

                What was written wasn’t enough information though. These were soldiers, not analysts, and he wanted to know what had been found in Kynesgrove.

                “Tell me what you saw,” he requested.

                Two dead Stormcloaks of the regular Kynesgrove patrol, a sign of what was assumed to be a dragon fight, and a huge dragon skeleton. The details just weren’t enough. He needed to know what the soldiers had seen.

                “The dragon mound, it looked like it had…” and the scout searched for words, “exploded. From the inside. There was rocks and dirt everywhere. And the skeleton…”

                “I’ve never seen bones so huge, sir! Its teeth alone were as long as my hand!” the other gushed, and for a while, the two spoke only of the dragon. It was large, it was terrifying, even dead it was terrifying. And the site of the fight… It looked like the dragon had not spent much time on the ground before it had been killed, its claws had scored the ground from walking, and there was a lot of blood on the ground, and there was a spot on the ground that looked like it had been pounded flat and tight maybe from the beast’s tail. There had been some blood on the ground a bit further away from the skeleton, among the padprints of boots, but not enough to be dragon’s blood.

                Perhaps the Dragonborn had gotten hurt in the fight.

                The shadow Ulfric had seen had not looked like a skeleton but full of flesh and blood, and he had heard rumors that when the Dragonborn fought his dragons, those corpses were reduced to nothing more than piles of bone and skin and whatever had been the dragon’s last meal most likely.

                And then, at last, the two reporting Stormcloaks spoke of the two dead Stormcloaks.

                And that was where Ulfric felt odd as the scout spoke first, telling him how the bodies had been laid out on the ground, one looking like it had been bitten almost in half yet they were rested side by side like soldiers waiting to be buried, clothing straightened, weapons in hand, eyes closed. Peaceful.

                Like the person who had moved them wanted to honor them as warriors.

                And Ulfric found himself drawing in a breath to speak but words evaded him.

                Whoever had tended to the bodies respected those men as warriors and left them ready to be brought back home looking like great heroes who fell in battle.

                “Were they taken to the Hall of the Dead?” Ulfric finally asked.

                “Yes, my lord. The priestess is probably down there doing her work with them now,” the soldier said.

                The Jarl nodded.

                “Thank you for your report. You are dismissed.”

                And at the wake of their leaving, Ulfric rubbed his mouth, falling deep into thought.

                Those two dead soldiers had been with the Dragonborn and they had died in the fight. One nearly bitten in half by the dragon. And the Dragonborn respected those two dead boys enough despite his own injuries to make sure they looked like proper heroes to those who found them.

                And Ulfric sighed, rubbing his face. He felt sick to his stomach and he wanted answers, but answers wouldn’t be able to come unless he gave the priestess of Arkay enough time to examine the bodies.

                So he took a very long bath to try to sooth his nerves and he went to bed early.

                And that night, he dreamed of dragonfire and the carnage of Helgen, and woke with Galmar’s hand around his wrist, preventing him from striking his housecarl in his thrashing.

                Another bath was drawn and Ulfric meditated while he soaked. He needed to be calm.

                Peace.

                _Drem_.

                _Su’um ahrk morah_.

                Breathe and focus.

                He went to the Temple of Talos and prayed for strength.

                And then, he descended into the depths of the Hall of the Dead.

                Ulfric was quiet among the coffins waiting for the ground to thaw enough to be buried, and when he stepped into the room where the process of preparing the bodies was done, he found himself taken by the sight.

                All items on the bodies had been collected and removed, leaving the two soldiers bare and cold and dead on the examination table, one with deep teeth marks that covered the meat of his ribs and his abdomen, severing one arm at the wrist and the other near the shoulder, the man’s arms settled right where they belonged and stitched back to his body so that they would be in proper arrangement for when he was to be buried. The other man looked like he had suffered burns but they were the least of the damage. What had really killed the man was the way his ribs had been shattered and turned concave. One man had been killed by the bite of the dragon and the other had been killed with a flick of the tail.

                Helgird looked up to him.

                “You have impeccable timing, Jarl. I just finished with our boys here.”

                He nodded. “What can you tell me?”

                She started with the obvious. Her little joke that they were dead, which lead to an unimpressed expression from the Jarl, before she moved onto the causes of death, followed by little details he didn’t need to know like their immediate health right before death, the state the bodies had been in when they had been brought back to her like the wounded on stretchers rather than two dead men, and that she had also found something strange.

                Something that didn’t belong.

                And Helgird cleared her throat before she picked up something off the table. “Both bodies had these in their mouths, put under their tongues.” And when she extended her hand to him, he picked up the two chips of stone, smaller than coins, and they were an unusual blue-white color.

                He had never seen anything quite like it.

                “What is it?” he asked.

                “You may want to ask the Smith that, I’ve never seen this sort of material before. All I know is that it’s hard and it doesn’t belong on a body.”

                Ulfric quietly nodded. “I see. Was there anything else?”

                “No, Jarl, there wasn’t.”

                “I will let you return to your task then.”

                She didn’t seem to mind as he turned and left the Hall of the Dead, allowing Helgird to finish preparing the bodies now that she was done examining them.

                Oengul War-Anvil himself was sitting at his forge on his break for a bite to eat when Ulfric approached, the smith’s apprentice staring with a look of enamor upon her face as he stepped past and greeted the smith calmly, much to Oengul’s surprise.

                “Jarl Ulfric, what can I do for you today?” he immediately greeted and asked, seeming both startled and pleased by the untimely visit he was making.

                “It was suggested to me that you might recognize what this is,” Ulfric said, offering to him the two small stone chips and the smith picked them up from his hand and held them out to gaze at them in the sunlight before he let out a startled breath.

                “Shor’s beard! Enchanted ice!” he marveled aloud and Ulfric’s brows pinched in curiosity.

                “These are pieces of Stalhrim, a material that’s only found on Solstheim. I’ve seen a weapon made out of the stuff maybe twice in my life. The Skaal are deathly protective over the ore though and I would be too. A pound of Stalhrim ore can cost twice as much as a single ingot of gold! These pieces though, they weren’t just leftovers from forging some weapon or piece of armor,” the smith explained in amazement before he held up the pieces for the Jarl to see.

                And he wondered just what the smith was trying to show him.

                “Look at the shape, the size. They’re the exact same, and there’s _holes_ for them to be _stitched_ to something. With more pieces like these, someone could make some damn fine scale armor.”

                That got the Jarl’s attention.

                Scale armor made with chips of Stalhrim. And if a lump of ore alone cost 200 Septims, he could only imagine how much scaled armor of the stuff would cost.

                And the person who had placed these two ‘scales’ of Stalhrim under the tongues of those two dead soldiers either didn’t know the worth of the chips or didn’t care.

                And Ulfric let out a breath of amazement.

                “Thank you for your help, Oengul,” he finally said.

                The smith just seemed grateful that the Jarl bothered to stand by the forge for five minutes and easily gave the pieces back to Ulfric.

                If the Dragonborn was carrying around Stalhrim scales, Ulfric could only wonder where the man was from. Was he from Solstheim? Morrowind? Had he traveled all over? Ulfric was deathly curious about the man and he didn’t even know the name of the man. Balgruuf the Greater would though.

                After all, if rumors still held any truth to them, the Jarl of Whiterun had made the Dragonborn thane of the hold in return for killing that first dragon spotted since the destruction of Helgen, which also meant that every guard in the city of Whiterun knew the name of the Dragonborn, if not the entire hold itself.

                Perhaps it was time to write a message to that quiet contact in Whiterun?

                No, it would be best to wait. It would be best to hold onto that resource until he really needed it, not use it for something as petty and simple as a name.

                Tall, male, shrouded by mystery, and carrying scales made of precious ore.

                Well, one day Ulfric would have the opportunity to meet the Dragonborn, and if Windhelm was the last major city for the Dragonborn to visit, Ulfric would be patient.

                A man of that importance would find his way around, especially if he was hunting down legendary beasts like dragons. Either that or someone or many someones who might know of anyone’s interest in having the Dragonborn side with either side in the war might _encourage_ the Dragonborn to pay a visit to the leaders of each fraction.

                It was a lot to think about.

                And frankly having the dragon attack just yesterday was still enough to make his head spin. And with today’s discovery of the Dragonborn’s method of showing respect for the dead, Ulfric brought those two scales back to the Hall of the Dead and told Helgird to place the stone chips back where they had been. It was how the Dragonborn had wanted them to be, and unless the Dragonborn stated otherwise, let the two men be buried with the Dragonborn’s sign of respect.

                She shrugged and did as requested, Jarl’s orders and what not, she could see the logic behind it despite the oddness, and when Ulfric took himself back to the Palace, he told Galmar of the finds as well.

                “This Dragonborn fellow is an odd one,” he stated flatly as he took a long drink from his tankard at supper.

                Ulfric couldn’t help but agree.

                He wanted to meet him.

                Badly.

                The next few days lacked anything of interest or of note aside from dreams of dragons instead of war and that suited Ulfric just fine. He had sent more men over to Kynesgrove to see what repairs were needed to the little settlement and he had letters to read from the captains at the different forts and camps. Any sight of dragon activity was to be written and reported back to him.

                If they ignored their dragon problem in favor of their focus on the war, they would all get roasted alive by enormous flying lizards. He wasn’t certain about the movements of Imperial troops in regards to this whole dragon business but he did not doubt that General Tullius would make equal efforts as Ulfric in regards to avoiding losses of good men.

                Losing men to dragons was not particularly favorable to either side.

                Losing Skyrim to dragons was among the list of things he did not wish for.

                And that thought followed him into his dreams on the fifth night after Kynesgrove’s own encounter.

                He was back at Helgen, back in gag and binds, but instead of the Imperials and their headsman and his block, the Thalmor were feeding soldiers of the Empire and Stormcloaks alike into the horrible gaping maw of that awful black dragon, its eyes glowing red and its body a cruel twist of power, talons scoring the ground.

                The heat from the beast was scorching, even without its mighty Thu’um.

                And just as the Thalmor grabbed his shoulders to push him forward, a shadow flew over the square in a whisper of silence and for a moment, everything stopped. The Thalmor, the soldiers, even that black creature. All eyes turned skyward.

                And then, with all eyes in the wrong direction, Ulfric witnessed a great flash of scales like shimmering sunlight streak down from the sky and slam into the black dragon with its entire body, sending that one sprawling away from the prisoners and directly into the Thalmor.

                Crouched on the ground was a sleek creature with spines scattered over it shoulders and jagged scales armoring the hearty muscles at its wings, its body shifting colors in the light but all of them were tones of yellow and fire.

                And then, the golden dragon lifted its head and released a great Thu’um to the sky.

                Every solders binds were cut. Every solders hands held weapons.

                And the black beast roared its challenge at the golden one.

                And the gold one huffed powerfully, head lifted proudly, and the dragon shot into the sky with a simple sweep of its wings, the gust powerful enough to knock the Thalmor down and ground the black dragon for a moment. And when the black dragon had its bearings, it took to its wings as well.

                The Thalmor were downed again by the blast, and the Empire and the Stormcloaks remained standing.

                And while the dragons took their own fight high above them, the men and women of Skyrim and the men and women of the Empire stood beside each other as brothers and sisters in the Great War once more and they brought their rage down upon the Thalmor like a headsman’s axe.

                Ulfric found himself fighting shoulder to shoulder besides Tullius, Elenwen herself facing off against the two and she held her own like a whirlwind of fury, wounding them both multiple times in the same amount of time it took for each of them to manage only one successful wound on her.

                He watched Tullius parry an attack before she brought the general down to his knees with a cheap strike and kicked him away and the woman turned her full attention onto Ulfric, that same _nasty smile_ she always wore when she tortured Ulfric on her lips and fear rose in his throat.

                She rose her blades and he lifted his to try to block, and a fierce gust of wind descended upon them before great golden jaws closed down over Elenwen just as it landed, snatching her up and tossing her high like a child would throw an apple high into the air in hopes of trying to catch it.

                Elenwen never came back down, as two dragons, one with scales like wine and white wings and the other the color of earth and rot and with tattered wings, both snatched up the woman and tore her apart.

                The sleek golden dragon watched the two dragons above before turning great amber eyes with slitted pupils to Ulfric and the wounded Tullius.

                And the beast sat back on its haunches, knuckles of its wings bracing it to sit tall and proud before the two leaders.

                And in a low and rolling Thu’um, the golden dragon rumbled out three words.

                “ _Su’um ahrk morah_.”

                Ulfric blinked in surprise before he drew in a deep breath.

                “ _Drem, Strunkodaav. Drem, Sahqokonahrik. Yuvon hokoron fen mah._ ”

                “What is it saying?” Tullius asked, clutching at his crippling wound.

                And Ulfric translated.

                “Peace, storm-bear. Peace, red-general. The gold enemy will fall.”

                And the dragon almost hummed in satisfaction.

                “ _Viing dovah ahrk bah mun. Hi fen kron_.”

                _Wings of dragon and wrath of man. You will win_.

                _You will win_.

                And Ulfric woke to sunlight on his skin and that Thu’um echoing in his mind.

                And as the haze of sleep wore off, so did his memory of the dream and all he was left with was the image of that golden dragon and one fact.

                That dragon did not speak as though to Thu’um came naturally.

                It was like how Ulfric himself had began to speak in Thu’um. The words were there, they were known, but they didn’t feel right. It had taken Ulfric himself almost the entire time he lived among the Greybeards for the words to sift into the right spots when he spoke. Yet that dragon…

                That dragon was a new speaker to the language of dragon tongue. It knew the words but saying them just wasn’t right yet.

                It bothered him.

                And even that fact faded away as Ulfric bathed and meditated all at once.

                Peace.

                _Drem_.

                _Su’um ahrk morah_.

                Breathe and focus.

                And when he felt ready, he dressed and stepped out of the palace.

                He needed to speak to the captain of the guard that morning who was currently stationed just outside the gate and as Ulfric and Galmar passed the path just by the graveyard, Ulfric heard one of the guards speaking.

                “You look a little sick, are you sure you shouldn’t be at home in bed?”

                “Not when ye ol’ Skyrim weather is saving my ass yet again.”

                Ulfric stopped dead in his tracks with wide eyes, blinked, and backtracked.

                He hadn’t heard that voice in almost two months.

                And there on the streets of Windhelm stood that face.

                The Altmer, Loriel Elsinlock.

                Identical brother to the Thalmor aid.

                The last time Ulfric had seen him, the Mer had been wearing chainmail underneath his blue merchant’s clothes and looked well enough to spit skulls despite his injuries at the hands of the Thalmor and received under dragonfire.

                The person he found himself seeing this time was a tall Altmer standing on the stairs, wearing a loose miner’s shirt that was comfortably soaked with sweat that dripped down the Altmer’s neck, a dark blue merchant’s shirt folded over the satchel he carried, his golden face on the rose-gold side and misted with perspiration, and hair the color of harvest wheat swept back and tied up off his skin.

                And the feverish fool was enjoying the _weather_.

                “Perhaps you should head to the White Phial, friend, get a potion to cure you,” Ulfric commented, making the Altmer look away from the guard and his mouth quickly curved into a smile, brows rising in humor.

                “If a potion could cure me, I wouldn’t be walking around in the cold to keep myself from being miserable. Good morning, Jarl of Windhelm.”

                Ulfric huffed out a laugh.

                “Good morning, fugitive. What brings you to the city?”

                It was Loriel’s turn to laugh.

                “Beauty of Dawn.”

                Ulfric blinked in confusion.

                “That was the song I was singing the first time I saw you. I was just past Radiant Raiment’s and you were leaving the city after having just killed Torygg. The guard who opened the gate for you was Roggvir. He used to pay me six Septims to sing Ragnar the Red when he had just gotten off shift every Tirdas. It always put him in a good mood. He’s dead now, just so you know. Because he opened that gate. And until the Thalmor are kicked out of Skyrim, I can’t go back to the Bard’s College. I bet the Thalmor confiscated all my stuff too. And visiting Imperial-sided holds will be troublesome.”

                Loriel was smiling the entire time he told him all these details, and Ulfric got the feeling that he was less than happy about the latter half of his statement.

                Every detail was a further punctuation as to what a problem Ulfric’s rebellion had caused for the elf.

                Every detail behind the misery the Mer currently had to face was Ulfric’s fault.

                And Ulfric drew in a breath.

                “Windhelm is far from being Solitude, but if you can find it in yourself to tolerate the city until the war is over, you are welcome here. Just don’t cause any trouble,” Ulfric told him, his last statement holding a faint note of teasing.

                Loriel gave a huff of a laugh.

                “One measly Altmer bard on the run in Stormcloak country, what a story to tell my brothers,” he commented with a cheeky grin. “I’ll see what mayhem I can create without _too_ much effort.”

                And the Altmer gave a playful two-fingered salute to him before he walked off to possibly explore the city.

                Ulfric found himself amused at the presence of the wanted fugitive in their midst.

                A bard.

                If the elf knew the Beauty of Dawn, Ulfric wondered what other older-era songs he knew.

                It would lend some more vibrant variety to the people.

                And variety always offered a means to make more people happy.

                Ulfric would certainly have to wait and see how things would go with the elf’s added presence. There weren’t many Altmer in Windhelm, just the general goods merchant woman and the owner of the apothecary shop, so the addition would be noticeable to the people but only slightly. The Altmer seemed to be the biggest minority in Windhelm but they still lived better than both the Dunmer in the Grey Quarter and the Argonians who weren’t even allowed into the city.

                “That elf was too comfortable with you,” his housecarl said gruffly.

                What Galmar really meant was that _he_ wasn’t comfortable with how _casual_ the Altmer had been with him.

                “That’s the elf I told you about. The one who escaped Helgen with Ralof.”

                And Galmar frowned.

                “Lucky elf, I’d say. Looks like a peasant.”

                Loriel probably was in comparison to the rest of the soldiers.

                “He’s can swing a sword as well as he can sing a tune.”

                And Galmar scoffed.

                “As long as he stays out of the way, I don’t care,” he stated, and Ulfric felt himself absently shrug before returning to the Palace of the Kings.

                And Ulfric continued about his life, not worried about the presence of the elf in Windhelm, but he found himself staying absently aware for mentions of him.

                At the end of a week, the bard had made himself rather popular, singing in the inn during the times the normal bard was sleeping and resting her voice, occasionally the two performing duets for the amusement of the patrons of the tavern, and he also heard whispers among the guard that the Altmer bard was doing performances in the Grey Quarter on certain nights and even going down to the docks some afternoons and singing for the Argonians while they worked.

                Over all, Ulfric could simply note that the bard really loved to sing.

                And had quite the collection of songs to sing.

                The song that he sang the most though was Three Hearts as One, the song of the Ebonheart Pact.

                Ulfric had heard the story perhaps once or twice in absence in his youth but he was not incredibly familiar with the tale or the history behind it. But he did know that it was about the three different races who rose together in arms in the Three Banners War, calling their alliance the Ebonheart Pact, Nords fighting beside the Dunmer and the Argonians, and that in the war that came, the army that had developed the biggest foothold, before cooperation between the armies was found to defeat a greater evil than each other, had been the made by the cooperation of the people of Skyrim, Morrowind, and Black-Marsh.

                And with the song, Loriel had stirred the hearts of the Argonians and the Dunmer, and Ulfric found himself being approached more frequently about how the two races were treated.

                But there was still concern in Ulfric’s heart.

                The reason why he kept the segregation had not been out of hatred or disdain for either race, but because the Argonians and the Dunmer had more recently been at each other’s throats than they had been allies, and Ulfric wanted to avoid bloodshed in the city should those bad-blood feelings still linger.

                But the rousing of spirits Loriel had done had given the Jarl of Windhelm something to think about.

                And then, three weeks after he came, Loriel wandered out the gate of Windhelm wearing a cloak over some cheap leather armor he had bought from the city’s blacksmith, and he disappeared.

                They had not spoken since that very first day that he came to the city.

                And from what he overheard from the guards was that the gold bard had told the grey bard that he was going off adventuring for a while and promised that he would be back before she knew it.

                But when one was out adventuring, there was a tendency to lose track of time.

                And with the bard being so little known outside of Windhelm itself, Ulfric got to hear little news of the bard and his adventures from word of mouth from visitors to the city or even guards.

                And in his absence, Ulfric found that things went back to the way they had been before he even came, ignoring the fact that the greyskins and scalebacks still had their newfound vigor from the bard which made the aquatic dockworkers and the dark elf laborers work harder though.

                So the bard had turned out to be good for business after all.

                To the Jarl of Windhelm, that was good enough for him.

                And just when Ulfric’s thoughts were starting to dwindle away from their dragon problem due to the lack of reports, the Dragonborn came to Windhelm.


	6. Chapter Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just FYI, this is also posted on my Fanfiction account too. Same name, same story. Enjoy. And don't forget to comment please.

                Ulfric could openly say that two things about the Dragonborn were impressive from just looking at him.

                The first was just how damn _tall_ the man was.

                The second was that everything that the man wore to shroud his identity was an incredible work of art.

                And by the gods was it an incredibly _hideous_ work of art, too.

                Everything that made up the Dragonborn’s armor was pieced together like a collage that could not have screamed ‘scavenger’ any louder at anyone who rested their eyes upon the man of legend.

                The largest intact part that had been incorporated into it was something that looked like it had once belonged to some form of Bosmer attire from the manner of embroidery that had been stitched into the material. The arrangement looked like things the Dragonborn had stumbled upon had been strategically stitched into place, woven together, strapped down, whatever it took for him to incorporate every trinket that seemed to please him into the whole of what he wore. It was hard to tell where the Dragonborn’s inner magpie ended and the functionality of the outfit began too, but the functionality of _everything_ was obvious if one knew anything about scavenging for survival.

                The Forsworn were just like that too, ingenious in their methods and usefulness of what they found. The only difference was that they did not feel the need to _wear_ their useful items so proudly on their bodies as the Dragonborn did.

                Even the man’s face were hidden, not one patch of skin, nor strand of hair, nor glimpse of eye color was revealed to Ulfric.

                And no sign of Stalhrim scaling either.

                He didn’t know if he should have felt disappointed or not.

                And Ulfric drew in a slow, calm breath.

                “Dragonborn,” he greeted, “Welcome to Windhelm.”

                And the shrouded man tilted his head slightly.

                “It appears I’ve been expected.”

                The voice held the edge of laughter on it, and Ulfric was almost completely certain that this hidden man was a Nord judging by his accent.

                It was so rare to meet men who were much taller than himself, and if the two of them were standing eye to eye, Ulfric assumed that he would have only come up to the other man’s eyebrows at the very best.

                The only two races that Ulfric knew of that had individuals that tall were usually Altmer or Orc. So perhaps this man had a bit of Orc blood in him as well. If he had been an Altmer or of Altmer blood, he would have been considered to be a bit on the short side.

                But Ulfric was certain by his voice that this man was a Nord.

                “You were by Kynesgrove about a month ago. Your presence did not go unnoticed,” Ulfric mentioned.

                He heard the man sigh.

                “Harbingers of the end-times my foot. _Ruth Sahloknir_. _Ruth Alduin_.”

                Ulfric blinked in surprise at the spat Thu’um.

                He recognized the three words that went into the names that the Dragonborn cursed.

                Sahloknir meant Phantom Sky Hunt, and as for Alduin…

                Destroyer Devour Master.

                “There was a black dragon which flew by Windhelm from the direction of Kynesgrove.”

                “The one everyone should avoid. Alduin.”

                Ulfric nodded.

                “I will send note to the holds and soldiers under my command.”

                “He has been making his way north with his resurrections, and I am assuming he will make his way around the boarder of Skyrim before centralizing.”

                Excellent to know.

                “So he started near Riften?”

                “Supposedly, yes. It’s hard to tell how long a dragon was alive after I deal with it.”

                So the Dragonborn had been busy.

                Which brought another question to Ulfric’s mind.

                “I do not believe I have the honor of knowing your name, Dragonborn,” the Jarl of Windhelm pointed out.

                There was a slight huff of laughter and the man’s shoulders relaxed.

                “Arson.”

                Just Arson?

                “I see…”

                Ulfric tried to not sound disappointed but he worried that it still showed.

                And the Dragonborn, Arson as he called himself, shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

                “Might we walk?” the man suggested, as though being still for too long left him with some discomfort.

                “Of course.”

                Ulfric was personally grateful for the offer, and perhaps it would get Galmar to stop openly glaring at the mysterious man.

                And the Jarl was right in his speculation. The top of his head was only a finger’s width above those colored lenses that hid the man’s eyes, lenses that Ulfric recognized from certain Dunmer armors made of chitin.

                “You appear to be quite the traveler,” Ulfric absently observed.

                “I began traveling out of spite and found that wanderlust was in my heart.”

                The Jarl chuckled. He had heard of people who would do things out of spite just to prove the people who didn’t believe in them to be wrong. “That sounds like a good reason.”

                “I think so too. I have a question though, Jarl of Windhelm,” Arson stated as they left the Palace of the Kings and walked side by side.

                “I will try to give you the most appropriate answer.”

                “The most truthful would be preferred. The two dead soldiers wearing your colors out at Kynesgrove. Were they taken care of?”

                Ulfric blinked in surprise and quietly was pleased that the Dragonborn remembered. It gave the Jarl a general idea of the man’s compassion.

                “Yes in fact. The families were notified and very grateful as well for your respect to them.”

                The Dragonborn let out a soft sigh.

                “I feel I would have respected them better if I had been able to keep them alive. Leaving them with those medallions was the best way I felt I could honor them for their bravery, facing off with that dragon,” the man admitted.

                “Stalhrim scales.”

                He tilted his head with an absent shrug as they cycled through the residential area of Windhelm.

                “A ridiculous project that I decided to take on and the only reason I am bound and determined to finish it is out of spite towards myself. I’ve come to realize that I am an incredible glutton for punishment.”

                _Sounds kinky_.

                The thought was like an assault to Ulfric, one that he couldn’t believe impulsively hopscotched across his brain.

                Outwardly he hoped that his face or body language hadn’t betrayed his thought process.

                Perhaps he was picking up on bad habits from the other soldiers who were looser with their words.

                Or perhaps his careless mannerisms from his youth as a soldier were making an untimely comeback.

                Regardless of what the cause was, he wanted it to stop.

                “How far along are you with that project?” Ulfric asked as casually as he could.

                “Not _nearly_ as far as I would like but I like to think that Skyrim’s issue with dragons was quite timely. The sleeves alone were making me lose my mind…”

                “It must be expensive to make.”

                “Only if you’re buying the ore. The expensive part was affording the ebony smithing lessons. Stalhrim is _ridiculous_ to work with and making scales is mind-numbingly tedious,” Arson sighed.

                “As wonderful as this absent chat is, I think there are more pressing matters to discuss,” Galmar shot in and Ulfric looked back to him. He had almost completely forgotten his housecarl had been following, he had been so quiet. The Dragonborn looked back to him as well.

                “The war?” Galmar said, looking pointedly at Ulfric and raised his brows in annoyance and exasperation.

                Talking was not Galmar’s strong-suit, and the man lacked tact when it came to approaching any topic. The path from his brain to his mouth was like a door, if he opened his mouth, his mind came out.

                The Dragonborn was still looking at Galmar as Ulfric looked back to Arson.

                “If this is about your civil war,” Arson stated, calm and cool, before Ulfric could open his mouth, “I have four lines for you.”

                And the man proceeded to hold up his fist towards Galmar.

                “Not my circus,” he started as his first finger extended, “Not my skeevers,” the second came up, “Not my problem,” the third rose.

                He paused as he put his hand back down to his side.

                “My problem flies.”

                “Perhaps we could help each other,” Ulfric suggested.

                “Jarl, with all due respect, I will not take part in a war that will only make _my_ problem stronger. Death feeds that dragon and if there is anything you can do to help me, it would be for you to keep casualties at an all-time low if not non-existent. Try to find a way to defeat the real problem behind your war before you go killing people you once called brothers and sisters in arms,” Arson stated, turning fully to Ulfric.

                “If you’re so smart, what’s the real problem then?” Galmar spat and Ulfric shot him a look.

                “The same people you were at war with thirty years ago, s’wit,” the Dragonborn spat in return, his Nord accent dropping for the single word of Dunmer slang. Then, Arson turned and began to walk away.

                Ulfric frowned at Galmar before he picked up his stride to get back to Arson’s side.

                “My intension was not to talk about the war,” Ulfric told him and the Dragonborn crossed his arms over his chest.

                “Not at that moment, it wasn’t. Your method of speech is respectable but it is your housecarl needs to learn the definition of the word tact because he is utterly tactless.”

                The Jarl would not deny that in the least.

                “I apologize for him.”

                “Don’t. An apology means there will be an effort for the problem to be fixed. Men like that are set in their ways. I just hope that you are more flexible than that, Jarl.”

                “Do you have a schedule for today, Dragonborn?”

                “Please just call me Arson, the title of Dragonborn is right on up there with being called Thane in making my eyes go cross. And yes. I would like to be half way to the next dragon mound before dusk.”

                “Where is this located?”

                “West of Dawnstar.”

                Arson had half a day to make a trip that would take more than that.

                “Then I won’t keep you.”

                “Thank you. Your company was pleasant for a warlord.”

                “You’re welcome. Your company was pleasant for a scavenger,” Ulfric replied with a hint of a smile in his voice and he heard the Dragonborn chuckle before making his way out the gate.

                The moment the Dragonborn was gone, Ulfric turned to Galmar with a cold sternness as he stated, “The next discussion that I have with the Dragonborn, I suggest you either stay silent or go do something elsewhere.”

                Galmar scowled fiercely, “If the man wasn’t going to join us in the war, why did he even come?”

                “As a formality, Galmar. A sign of respect. One which I had intended to reciprocate by waiting until he brought up the war in conversation by himself before I would touch on the matter,” Ulfric stated almost curtly before he strode away from his housecarl and through the city, choosing to go down to the docks to discuss with the ship captains about recent travels, any troubles, anything to distract Ulfric away from his anger at his housecarl and his annoyance that his time with the Dragonborn was cut short by the man having a duty to perform for Skyrim.

                Neither Arson nor the Jarl had a choice on the matter though, and Ulfric felt that if he had not had that prior engagement, he would have invited him to stay and talk longer. Speaking with the Dragonborn had been a friendly and somewhat amusing matter, the way the man spoke so brashly so casually and calmly. Although, Ulfric also felt he probably could have listened to Arson speak of his own adventures for hours. He liked the sound of his voice and the way he chose his words.

                No doubt the man had millions of them, more than just dragon stories, but also of all the places he had magpie the pieces of his armor from. Ulfric wanted to hear more about that Stalhrim armor Arson was making.

                Speaking with the two sea-captains had been the calming sort if not interesting, Kjar having issues with his crew who seemed to be the twitchy sort, and Gjalund Salt-Sage was keeping the Norther Maiden in the docks until the open sea weather improved. The waves had been of the rougher sort as of late and the last thing the Solstheim-bound captain wanted to deal with was having his ship turned over or ending up being crashed against the reefs and rocks.

                As he walked back up the stairs from the docks, he wondered if he should have asked the captain of the Northern Maiden about any odd passengers that had gone to or from Solstheim recently, wondering if he could figure out the Dragonborn’s identity that way but ultimately it wasn’t that hugely important to Ulfric. And he stopped and rubbed the back of his neck as he thought back to what Arson had said and what he had thought.

                _I’ve come to realize that I am an incredible glutton for punishment_.

                _Sounds kinky_.

                And Ulfric felt more embarrassed than he had before, feeling his cheeks grow hot as he restrained a small laugh.

                That had been interesting.

                It could have been even more interesting if the words had come out of his mouth. He wondered how Arson would have reacted. He knew that if Galmar had heard, he would have let loose a bark of laughter out of sheer surprise. As for Arson though, he didn’t know enough about the Dragonborn to know what his response would have been. Would he have laughed, or would he have gotten offended. It was his own word choice that had led to the thought anyway.

                Perhaps the thought had been spurred by the fact that it had been a while since he last had gotten any. Talos only knew how long it had been since he last had a lover, or not even a lover but rather just someone he had sex with on some form of regular intervals. How long had it been?

                It had been nothing more than his own hand for the better part of a year at least. He wasn’t going to fuck just anyone. He was a Jarl and there were certain standards to be met. If he took on a lover, that lover had to be respected by the people. If he took up someone for a random fuck, they had to be the sort who wouldn’t open their mouth about it.

                Ulfric had learned that mistake quickly after becoming Jarl.

                To have someone to warm his bed would be nice in general.

                He had never been married, couldn’t precisely say that he had ever been in love, and he had no idea of any of his adventurous one night stands from his youth had come to bear fruit. Ulfric had always wondered what it would have been like to be a father. He wondered if he would have been anything like his own father.

                Ulfric hoped he would have been the kind of father that his father would have been proud of.

                And Ulfric brought himself back to the Palace of the Kings for the evening, meditated before supper and read through the reports that had come in during that day. Galmar eventually came and gave the closest thing that would come to an apology, and Ulfric gave the closest thing that would come to forgiveness.

                His friend was a soldier, not a politician. Ulfric unfortunately had to be both.

                The Jarl puzzled over many things, the forefront of them being Arson himself, the Stalhrim scales that the man was turning into armor, who he really was. The thoughts eventually lulled him to a dreamless sleep.

                And over the next few days, Ulfric received more and more reports from the south-west of Eastmarch. A bandit problem out at Gallows Rock. It was something to be entertained with, and Ulfric took a small band of men with him, including Yrsarald, to stretch their legs and their sword arm.

                The spot had once been the lair to a group called the Silver Hand, a group of cutthroats that had been responsible for the murder of the harbinger of the Companions out in Whiterun a few years back, and in response they had been wiped out. Now the place was overran by bandits.

                Or at least it was supposed to be.

                When Ulfric and his men arrived, there was only a few smatterings of bandits left who had either survived a recent attack on the place with the same intention as Ulfric’s group or they were just starting to take over the abandoned place again.

                The guards had mentioned that Arson had approached Windhelm from the south.

                Regardless though, the rest of Ulfric’s company cleaned the place out an returned home, the air growing harsh and bitter and the sharp wind that burned his face with cold was eased by the guarded walls of the bridge as his company made their way back into the city, the guards at the gates opening them for him and he breathed in a sigh of relief at being home again.

                His military general huffed and shook himself vigorously like a dog, causing the snow that settled into his cape and clothes and hair come loose and descend to the ground where it belonged. “Well that was tedious,” Yrsarald grumbled, rubbing the back of his neck.

                “Nothing is tedious when it comes to keeping the people safe. I am glad we went,” Ulfric stated as the rest of the company went off on their ways, most going back to the bloodworks to get some rest, and some were heading towards Candlehearth Hall.

                Or at least that was their intention before Ulfric heard the sound of a door banging open and he turned around just in time to witness his housecarl’s younger brother being hurtled through the doorway and landing in a sprawled heap at the bottom of the stairs, an Altmer with an angry red face and a bruising cheek wiping blood away from his mouth and nose as he snarled at Rolff, “And stop harassing my _fucking customers_!”

                And proceeded to slam the door shut.

                Ulfric blinked in surprise.

                It looked like Loriel was back to work from one of his adventures.

                And Yrsarald whistled low. “Now that’s a story I want to hear.”

                Ulfric wanted to hear it too.

                But the person to hear it from was likely to be from the Innkeeper and not Rolff who was picking himself up off of the ground, drunkenly grumbling and cursing about greyskins and goldskins and that _fucking bard_.

                “Will you make sure that my housecarl’s brother makes it home?” Ulfric lightly requested to Thrice-Pierced, who let out a controlled sigh before nodding and went to help the belligerent idiot while a good few of the guards who had originally intended to have a drink at the Inn thought better of it and went to go get some rest.

                The brave few who stayed true to their intention went in and Ulfric followed.

                There were two chairs missing from the counter Elda stood behind, the owner sweeping broken glass off of the surface and into a bucket with a cloth when the Jarl entered and for a moment, she didn’t notice him until he cleared his throat.

                “Jarl Ulfric,” she greeted, her cheeks flushing in surprise, flattered that the leader of the city himself would pay her Hall a visit.

                “Good evening, Elda,” he greeted.

                “What can I do for you tonight?”

                “Let’s start with some mead,” he suggested, offering her some coin for the drink and she shook her head.

                “For the Jarl? On the house,” she declined as she gave him his mead. He left the coin on the counter for her.

                “Rolff causing trouble tonight?” Ulfric asked lightly.

                “I suppose you would want to ask Loriel about that,” she stated before she called back in a sharp voice, “Lore! You can worry about those stools later, come here a moment, please.”

                “Kay!”

                The Altmer bard emerged from the back, his face wet from just being washed clean. The only sign of the fight was a bit of blood on his collar and his bruising cheek and knuckles. His nose looked a bit tender.

                “Ulfric.”

                He sounded just as surprised as Elda had and the woman tossed her cleaning cloth at the bard’s face.

                “Speak with respect,” she reminded him and the Altmer looked a bit sheepish.

                “To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?” he asked, a bit of humor on his voice and he put the cleaning cloth onto the counter.

                “Curiosity.”

                Loriel rose his brows with a light smile, encouraging him to go on.

                “It is not an everyday occurrence I get to witness the brother to my housecarl get thrown out of a tavern.”

                And the elf gave a small, sheepish laugh.

                “Let’s just say that putting alcohol into a racist idiot simply takes away the filters that belong somewhere between his brain, his mouth, and his actions. I don’t appreciate people harassing others just because of racial differences, and I certainly don’t appreciate people calling anyone spies without proof.”

                “So you got into a fight with him over words.”

                “I got into a fight with him over him trying to push a Dunmer who I am fond of into the _hearth_ , Jarl,” Loriel corrected him, his voice sharp yet soft and Elda gave the bard a look of warning.

                The words made Ulfric frown deeply and he took a long pull from his bottle.

                Brunwulf Free-Winter’s words about Rolff’s increased harassment of the Dunmer came to the forefront of his mind and he made a note to speak with both his housecarl about the matter and his brother. Separately.

                One to inform Galmar of his intent and the other to follow-through.

                Ulfric understood general animosity towards anyone who was different but when one was a fellow citizen of the city and had done nothing to warrant violence towards them, then it was a problem.

                Rolff could either learn to keep himself under control or he could find another place to be.

                Like a cell in the bloodworks while he sobered up.

                Ulfric drew in a breath.

                “Tell your Dunmer friend that I will look into the matter.”

                And Loriel rose his brows.

                “While you’re looking into the matter, do you think you could look into the matter of the state of the Grey Quarter? You can’t expect people to want to help the city if you are forcing them to live in filth and ruins.”

                “Loriel!”

                “And the Argonians, too. They work too hard for too little,” Loriel added, his tone almost scolding.

                Passion for the people. He had roused the hearts of the Dunmer and Argonians with his songs and he was willing to stand in front of the Jarl in the very tavern he worked at and say exactly what he wanted to say without fear of consequences.

                He could count on one hand how many people in Windhelm were like that.

                And Ulfric held his silence, his calm sea-colored eyes never leaving those fiery amber tones.

                “I will look into what I can do,” he finally said.

                It was the best he could do without making any promises.

                And Loriel took it for what it was.

                Then, the three of them both heard the shout for the Altmer and the bard turned sheepish and proud before slinking up the stairs and poking his head up to the next level to answer the call.

                “I’m terribly sorry, Jarl Ulfric. I’ll talk to him-”

                “Do not worry yourself, Elda Early-Dawn. His words don’t bother me.”

                If anything, the Altmer’s relaxed attitude as well as his lack of restraining his own temper towards the Jarl was amusing.

                Refreshing.

                And then, Ulfric heard the upstairs go quiet, just a few long moments before he heard a handsome voice seep into the corners of Candlehearth Hall, filling the place with audible warmth as Loriel sang.

                “ _We tilled Skyrim’s ground despite frozen toil._

_We tended the Kwama beneath Morrowind’s soil._

_We hunted the Wamasu in Black-Marsh’s glades._

_We three hearts had no need for blades._ ”

                Ulfric tilted his head as he listened, hearing the song for the first time, and he had the pleasure of hearing it carried on the tongue of that talented Altmer bard. And he closed his eyes, allowing his imagination to paint the scenes of the song as Loriel painted them on the air with his voice.

                “ _Then they came from the seas, folded steel in their hands._

_They burned down our homes and ravaged our lands._

_Akaviri brought nothing but bloodshed and lies._

_Our families were slain before our eyes._ ”

                He saw the Great War again, men and women and children alike falling to Thalmor blades, the ruins and fires scattered over the lands. Some lost everything in that war, and some lost what was left of themselves. Ulfric had almost been one of the latter. He had almost lost his mind in the wake of Legionnaire’s disease that lingered from the hands of the Thalmor, and even thirty years after, there were days where he could feel that noose of anxiety tighten about his throat.

                “ _With three separate people, they shared a cruel joke—_

_A choice between death or the yoke._

_But then our three people knew what must be done._

_To end the oppression, our three became one._ ”

                He saw the aftermath of the war, the slavery the Empire agreed to by forging the treaty, and he also saw the cause of his own rebellion. Ulfric knew what he had to do for the sake of Skyrim, his home, and the only mistress he needed. His love for his land and his people and his heritage were great. Had the Empire made a pact with the other weakened provinces, their own forces against the Thalmor would have been able to drive those goldskins back into the sea.

                If Hammerfell alone had been convinced to put aside their own civil war to deal with the matter of Tamriel’s people verses the Thalmor and their allies, the Empire would have not needed to make the treaty.

                They would have been victorious.

                “ _Forged by War, the Ebonheart rose_

_And drove the Akaviri back to the sea._

_When the enemies begged for the mercy they lacked,_

_Three voices as one shouted “Blood for the Pact!_ ”

                He wanted nothing more than to drive every Thalmor from Skyrim’s ground. Arson was right that they were the real problem but with the Empire acting as the shield for the Aldmeri Dominion, there was no way that Ulfric could figure out thus far to make the real enemy retreat without taking on the entire Empire itself. He needed more time to try to work out a plan like the Dragonborn had suggested but time was not a luxury that Ulfric had.

                If need be, Ulfric was willing to take on the entire Empire to get the Thalmor out of Skyrim. Even if he was to do so alone.

                But he had men and women who stood not only behind him but at his sides.

                His Pact was his people.

                Perhaps the Altmer bard was right, too.

                There was not just Nords in Skyrim, and there were men and women of all races willing to fight for Skyrim’s sake.

                The Dunmer and the Argonians of Windhelm were just as much people of Skyrim as he was.

                “ _Forged by war, our story be told,_

 _No shackles can hold us whether Moonstone… or Gold._ ”

                Quietly, Ulfric opened his eyes, and found himself not at the site of the Great War or anything in between then and now.

                He was in Candlehearth Hall, sitting on a stool that hadn’t managed to get broken in the most recent bar fight with a bottle of mead in his hand.

                Even Elda had gone quiet to listen to the Altmer bard sing.

                And Ulfric breathed out.

                The most popular song of the people of Windhelm for a reason.

                One of these days, he would have to ask the Altmer for a personal performance, see what other songs he knew that the Jarl had not yet had the pleasure of hearing.

                Perhaps Ulfric would be the last person in Windhelm to hear all of those songs.

                And he took another long pull from his bottle as sound returned to the second floor, cheers and clapping from the audience who equally admired the Altmer’s voice.

                “He must bring in a lot of business,” Ulfric noted.

                “Enough that he’s been able to pay for a room for the next two months just in the last week.”

                Impressive.

                “He sings here every night?”

                “Only on slow nights. On the three busiest nights of the week he brings coin in for the New Gnisis Cornerclub. He spends about two hours every other afternoon down by the docks, singing for the Argonians for nothing more than their pleasure,” Elda explained.

                “Hm.”

                And he finished his mead.

                “Thank you for your company, Elda. It was good to see you.”

                “The pleasure is all mine, my Jarl.”

                He gave her a polite nod before he left the Hall and returned to the Palace. There were things he needed to discuss with Galmar before he retired for the night and there was the matter of Rolff, the Grey Quarter, and the dockworkers to handle in the morning.


	7. Chapter Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just FYI, this is also posted on my Fanfiction account too. Same name, same story. Enjoy. And don't forget to comment please.

                The two weeks that followed after first hearing that song on Loriel’s lips went by fast, Ulfric often found himself caught up in either paperwork or complaints and Galmar had spoken to his brother about controlling his behavior around the Dark Elves, least he make Windhelm look shameful to any important visitors who witnessed. There was so much going on that Ulfric was grateful when he heard about a patrol heading towards the border to check on its status that he went with just so he could get out of the Palace of the Kings.

                That patrol was glad to have him with them, some of them glad to have Ulfric there to deal with the political talk with the captain of the Morrowind Side of the border, and when they made for their return, Yrasald was already talking about knocking back a few bottles of mead and flirting with the new pretty little woman at Candlehearth Hall.

                As they came into view of the bridge though, Ulfric recognized the hue of gold at the wall of the bridge, overlooking the docks, and he wondered why it was that one of the three Altmers of the city was out in the cold. It wasn’t likely to be the crotchety old Alchemist, and chances were slim that it was the sly speaking merchant of the market since the market was open and would be for the next nine hours.

                Which meant it was likely to be Loriel himself.

                Ulfric said nothing until the group reached the start of the bridge and he looked to Yrasald.

                “Go give the report to Galmar,” he requested to the man who gave an absent nod before the Jarl took to the stairs to ascend to the top of the bridge’s sheltering wall.

                And there Ulfric found Loriel, lounging with chin on folded arms against the wall, watching the Northern Maiden as it set out for Solstheim over the waters. Peacefully, the wheat colored hair wafted in the wind.

                He looked like his mind was somewhere far, far away.

                For a moment, all Ulfric did was watch.

                What was going on inside that golden head of his?

                Finally, when a gust of wind blowing in off the sea made Loriel close his eyes and shiver, Ulfric stepped to come beside the elf and leaned against the wall.

                “It’s cold out, bard. Shouldn’t you be inside?”

                “It’s always cold out in Windhelm, Jarl.”

                Ulfric wanted to argue that it wasn’t always but then again, his blood as a Nord protected him from the chill. All Loriel’s Altmer blood did for him was give him better magic usage.

                The elf sighed and he stood up properly, leaning against the wall of the bridge the same way as Ulfric, the skin of his nose, fingertips, and ears a rosy red. The growing stubble Loriel was sporting that morning was fine blond, the stuff around his mouth significantly paler than the rest.

                “Sometimes I want to go back. To Solstheim, I mean,” Loriel said very softly.

                “Why haven’t you?”

                There was silence as the wind whistled between the two of them.

                “Because it never really felt like home.”

                “Not like the Summerset Isles.”

                “Not like Skyrim.”

                Ulfric found himself surprised from the correction, the soft smile on Loriel’s face as he gazed down to the docks telling the Jarl that he wasn’t lying either.

                His shoulders rose slightly with a deep breath that he let out through his lips before he went on, telling Ulfric, “Skyrim always has had this… incredibly _constant_ feel to me. The paths that I first walked along thirty four years ago haven’t changed, neither have the caves and ruins I once explored, the cities I once visited. Everything here is just so… untouchable. It’s beautiful.”

                If anyone had told Ulfric thirty years ago that there was an Altmer who spoke of Skyrim with love, he would have thought the person was trying to pull his leg. But seeing the look on his face, the sound of his voice as he expressed his admiration of the country he loved made Ulfric feel a bit fond. The way Ulfric imagined a father would feel hearing praise about his own child.

                Skyrim was his.

                And to the fugitive of the Summerset Isle, it was a place he called home.

                Ulfric wanted to ask the bard about his thoughts on the war, but instead, he asked about Solstheim. His city was the only port to it, but Ulfric had only once left Skyrim and it had been for the war, a thing that did not touch the island north of Morrowind.

                The elf smiled, closing his eyes as he pictured the place. “Solstheim is… diverse. The island can be divided into quarters almost. Almost,” he repeated with a laugh, his smile turning fond.

                “I think you would have liked the Felsaad Coast. It has the most Nord-based culture, and it feels the most like the northern half of Eastmarch. Hospitable for us less-hearty folk and snowier the further north you go. Thirsk Mead Hall and the Skaal village are in that region. The people of Thirsk are very… I don’t know. Headstrong? That’s probably the nicest word I can come up with from the one time I dealt with them. The Skaal villagers are very peaceful though. Very one with nature. In the Skaal village, everyone has their own responsibilities and nothing ever goes to waste. They’re very efficient in a way that almost makes me a bit jealous.”

                Ulfric couldn’t help but chuckle a little. The way he went on to describe the Skaal people made him very curious. He almost wanted to meet them.

                And as Loriel continued to talk about the southern half of the island, a place covered in ash blown in from the Red Mountain, Ulfric finally felt like he was _looking_ at Loriel and really seeing him for the first time. More than just some remnescent reminder of the Thalmor Aid. More than just a fugitive of the Summerset Isles. More than just a bard.

                Him.

                He was seeing _him_.

                The Altmer told him about the Ash-Spawn infestation that seemed to be caused by the volcanic ore called Heart Stone, and about the old and slightly unhinged Dunmer mage that lived out to the eastern corner of the island in his giant mushroom tower. He spoke about Raven Rock and about the First and Second Councilors, about the local alchemist who he took an apprenticeship under while waiting out the war. He told the amusing tale behind the name of the local tavern that he had taken up singing at in the afternoons to pass the time and they both laughed together.

                Loriel told Ulfric about the investigation he helped with that uncovered an assassination plot on the First Councilor and how his help had earned him not only a permanent citizenship in Raven Rock but also a house.

                The first thing he really ever came to _own_ for himself since the day he had left the Isles.

                But it wasn’t enough.

                Solstheim didn’t feel like home.

                So he returned to a place he could call home.

                Skyrim.

                But Ulfric had to wonder though, with all this talk of Solstheim.

                About Stalhrim.

                About Arson.

                About the Dragonborn.

                “You said you spent ten years in Solstheim. Did you ever come across an ore called Stalhrim?” he asked, trying to touch on the topic without making the jump seem terribly random.

                And Loriel blinked, drawn out of his mirthful tale of remembrance.

                “Stalhrim?” he repeated.

                “Yes. It’s also called-”

                “Enchanted ice.”

                The elf was frowning now.

                “Yeah, I’ve ran across that stuff before. Tried to pick at it too. Have you ever seen a pickaxe break on ore? ‘cause I have,” and he sighed in exasperation.

                And then Ulfric watched Loriel cup his hands over his mouth and blow on them before cupping his hands over his ears.

                “Finally cold?”

                “Don’t even get me started, you damn hot-blooded Nord,” Loriel said with an accusing look that broke into a smile bordering on the edge of laughter, his nose almost as red as his angry blush and so were his fingertips from the cold wind that failed to be warmed by the warmth of the noontide sun.

                “Why don’t you walk with me? You’re enjoyable to talk with.”

                Loriel let out a huff through his nose. “Sounds fair. Good conversation seems to be hard to find around here unless you’re either a merchant or a bard. Or a Jarl,” he added, his voice almost teasing with a playful rise of his brows.

                Ulfric fought a smirk.

                Without any further excuses, the two of them stepped into the city side by side, Ulfric easily aware now that Loriel wasn’t standing so far away or leaning against something that he came up to the bridge of the Altmer’s nose.

                “So why did you ask about the Stalhrim?”

                “The Dragonborn mentioned trying to make armor out of the ore. I was curious as to if you might have met him while you were in Solstheim.”

                Loriel rose a brow at the Jarl.

                “Everyone wants to know who that guy is, all ooky-spooky and whatnot looking.”

                “Ooky-spooky?” Ulfric repeated as they approached the Palace of the Kings.

                “No one knows who the hell he is, he shows up at places and up and disappears at random. I’ve heard too many drunk couriers talk about how difficult it is to find the guy just to give him messages. Half the time I wonder if he’s even real or if everyone is under the same Sanguine intoxication-spell,” Loriel expressed, his hand gestures exasperated and confused and his face growing redder and not from the cold.

                Finally, Loriel huffed and rubbed his forehead, shaking his head as he composed himself.

                “I kind of don’t blame him for hiding who he is though,” he said, “I mean, what if he has a family? Loved ones? Divines only know how many people who would want a man of that sort of power under their thumb and would do anything to get him to do what they wanted. On top of the fact that he’s supposed to kill pretty much every dragon he comes across _and_ save the world?”

                The way Loriel explained it made Ulfric’s responsibilities feel very small in comparison.

                He remembered when he was a child and how daunting the idea of becoming Jarl was to him. He was supposed to become responsible for an entire Hold. Then when he was selected by the Greybeards to become one of them, it felt like he was trading one intimidating responsibility for another. Both of them made joining the war feel easy.

                To Arson, hiding his identity was probably the only way he could hope to live a normal life again after the whole Dragonborn business was done.

                If it ever was done.

                If he survived to see an _after_ to that mess that was made his responsibility by the Divines.

                Ulfric thought back to the way Arson declined to join the war. The way he told him to stop trying to kill the people who were once their brothers and sisters in arms and focus on the real problem, the Thalmor.

                Maybe Arson was right.

                Maybe Ulfric needed to find another way. To not only save Skyrim, but also to save her people from more heartache.

                And he frowned deeply.

                The entire thing was starting to give him a headache as he reached out for the door.

                Loriel’s long arms beat him to it, fingers splayed over the wood as he pushed it open and when he paused to looked up to the elf, the Mer gave a quirky red-nosed, red-eared smile.

                “Royalty before common-folk, go on.”

                His voice was playful.

                Teasing.

                And Ulfric shook his head, his brow furrowing despite the smile that crept to his lips.

                And the Jarl stepped into the main hall.

                Loriel let out a low, impressed whistle as he crossed his arms over his chest, or perhaps that was just the elf tucking his hands into his armpits to warm them.

                “Never been in the Palace before?”

                “I didn’t think it was my place. The only common-folk looking people I’ve ever seen enter are that Free-Winter fellow and a few people that I know are servants here. Everyone else is either you or part of your war-lot.”

                “The people of Windhelm are always welcome in the Palace of the Kings. A Jarl’s responsibility is to his people and if there is a problem, it can be brought to me, although on moments when I am not avalible, my steward who is responsible for more common affairs will tend to the matters unless he feels that he was approached with a problem outside of his control. In which case, he will bring it to my attention,” Ulfric explained, the smell of the noon-meal being cooked wafting up from the kitchens and the sound Loriel’s stomach made gave him a little more incentive to lead the elf to some place where the cold could be staved off and see if perhaps they could snag an early plate.

                “Some of the people say you go off adventuring.”

                “I occasionally join patrols to tend to problematic matters throughout Eastmarch. Occasionally these matters are political based, sometimes they are matters of safety. What kind of leader would I be if I did not make an active effort to look after the people who look up to me? To sit on my throne and do nothing but revel in the riches of my status while my people suffer one those Imperial Jarls.”

                “I never thought about it like that. I take it most Jarls aren’t so adventurous though?” the Altmer asked curiously as Ulfric pushed open the door of the kitchen where Sifnar and the Palace’s master hunter were talking over the slow-spit that held meat being cooked for the evening meal for the palace. The Jarl always ate the richest with the best quality, best choice of everything, while everyone else ate in rank with the servants typically getting the equivalent of scraps in Ulfric’s view. But even then, the servants of the palace ate better than most.

                Upon seeing the Jarl’s presence down in the kitchen, as well as his guest, the cook lifted two fingers with a questioning look, not wanting to disturb his Jarl’s conversation and Ulfric nodded, the Altmer’s brows raising in curiosity and surprise at the quality of service.

                There were many a day where he could praise the staff of the castle for their efficiency. They knew their jobs well, and many of them had been in the employment of the palace for years.

                “The Jarl of Dawnstar was among the best of my sort when it came to adventure before his age caught up with him, and the previous Jarl of Falkreath as well.”

                With Sifnar and the Huntsman fulfilling their duties, Ulfric came to stand by the fire and Loriel knelt, extending his hands out to the warmth, his golden skin glowing in the light. Occasionally, he would lift his hands to his pointed ears and cup over the ends.

                “Sounds dangerous. You could die while you’re out there,” Loriel commented, looking up to him as his toasty fingers pinched along the edges of those ears.

                “I could,” Ulfric agreed, “but I would rather die doing what I feel is a service to my people than sit in silence.”

                There was silence for a few breaths before he heard that one statement.

                “You really are like your father.”

                And it startled Ulfric.

                Loriel was still looking up to him with those amber eyes, calm and patient.

                Loriel knew his father?

                “I met him once,” Loriel explained, turning his eyes back to the fire and extended his hands out. “Just once. The very first day I came to Skyrim. I had been passing through the boarder along with a merchant’s caravan when I saw him along with a handful of his guards, out dispatching a nest of trolls that had taken over Refugees’ Rest. At first I thought he might have been a commander of the guard or something like that. I had made a point in my life before then to always avoid encounters with people of high standing, least I be memorable to them and the Thalmor catch up with me. I stayed away from palaces and castles and keeps and longhouses and when I couldn’t avoid being near one, I kept my head down. But he was really the first person of importance to the country that I encountered who… sought out his duty to his people so _actively_.”

                There was a quirk of a smile on Loriel’s lips as he remembered.

                “I remember how he greeted the head of the caravan like one would an old friend, and he shook the hand of everyone in the company, chatted with people he recognized, and welcomed people he didn’t to Skyrim. The way he spoke to everyone regardless of race with such incredible _kindness_ was…” and he took a breath, trying to find the right word and he shook his head when he couldn’t before he looked up to Ulfric, smiling. “Your father was my very first impression of Skyrim, Ulfric.”

                It sounded like a very good first impression.

                It was at that time the two of them received their early plates of lunch and Loriel’s cold appendages had returned to their original coloring, so Ulfric motioned for Loriel to follow.

                He enjoyed their conversation enough to not want the continuing of it to be interrupted so he did not lead Loriel to the tables but rather towards the war room where Galmar and Yrsarald were standing at the war table.

                Yrsarald looked up, “I was starting to wonder if the elf threw you off the bridge.”

                “I didn’t feel it was necessary.”

                The sound of Loriel’s voice made Yrsarald and Galmar both start and when the elf stepped into the room after Ulfric, Galmar’s expression tightened, as did his hand on the edge of the table. Ulfric narrowed his eyes at his housecarl.

                “Loriel Elsinlock, this is my housecarl, Galmar Stone-Fist, and this is my leading military commander, Yrsarald Thrice-Pierced,” Ulfric introduced.

                “I’ve been acquainted with your brother on multiple occasions, housecarl,” Loriel noted, his voice polite.

                “So I’ve heard. Just don’t break anything important.”

                “I’ll make an effort but no promises.”

                Galmar gruffly huffed but said nothing else further. It seemed Galmar had taken Ulfric’s words to heart that if he couldn’t be tactful, keep it short.

                Ulfric then brought the elf up to the Northern wing and despite his own age in comparison to the Altmer’s physical one, he could hear Loriel puffing behind him as he climbed the last flight of stairs. Ulfric had years of practice going up and down those steps in comparison.

                When they reached Ulfric’s own room, Loriel paused, his expression startled almost.

                He wondered what thought flashed through the elf’s mind as he pulled up another chair to his desk and moved papers out of the way so they could sit together. Then, he sat down.

                “I thought this would be a better place to be than watching Galmar glaring at you while we talked. He is… a bit protective of me.”

                “Not exactly the first word I’d choose, but I’ll take your word for it.”

                Ulfric knew exactly what word Loriel was thinking too.

                “He still has his lingering feelings from the Great War.”

                “What about you? Any lingering feelings?”

                Ulfric rose his eyes to Loriel as the elf took the chair beside him. There were some. But none of them seemed to really be directed towards that specific Altmer.

                “Lingering sensations I suppose. Lingering memories. Of what happened.”

                Loriel shook his head.

                “Bad topic to pick. I’m sorry.”

                It wasn’t his fault and Ulfric said so.

                The elf shrugged and took his first bite of food, closing his eyes with a soft, happy sigh.

                “It’s been a long time since I ate food that tasted this good.”

                Ulfric was curious but he didn’t press, only saying, “If your services as a bard are for hire, I might be able to have it arranged for you to help entertain when I have important company. Food included.”

                A humorous brow rose at the suggestion.

                “This meal alone is almost bribe enough for me to accept.”

                And they both chuckled.

                As they ate, they talked, or rather Loriel felt that it was Ulfric’s turn to do the talking since he had already spilled quite a bit about himself as it was, and Ulfric was content to oblige.

                He told Loriel a bit about his duties as a Jarl, most of which was public knowledge, and a few of them were lesser known facts, however he did not expose all of his tasks to the bard. He explained what it was like in his years in High Hrothgar before he decided to join the Great War. He admitted that the first handful of years that he was Jarl were not his best, likely from not having much guidance from his father before he lost him.

                And then he brought up the state of the city, about in the recent months how they had experienced murders that had eventually been stopped by realization that the owner of the local museum had been trying to bring his sister back from the dead, about a storm that had blown in off the sea that had done quite a bit of damage to the city. And then, Loriel interrupted him.

                “And what of the Grey Quarter? Any progress on that?”

                Still concerned about the Dunmer. Ulfric sighed and he rifled through his papers before finding the letters on the topic.

                “Because of the war effort, most of our spare gold is going towards that, however I have spoken to craftsmen in the local area about being able to make fixes to the outside of the Grey Quarter. I will also make an offer to the Argonians to allow them into the city for work. Should they accept, their first job would be to get the exterior of the Grey Quarter cleaned up,” he explained, allowing him to read the letters that had come from the craftsmen who had agreed to lend their labors to the city for half the price and would receive the rest of it once all the work was done.

                Loriel seemed incredibly satisfied about the progress that had been made on his request.

                After a while, Loriel asked if he minded him looking around and Ulfric gave him permission, and they spoke in absence as Loriel walked about the room, the plates already stacked to be taken by the maids later, and for a while, Ulfric only watched the elf before he went to organize his papers again. There was a new letter from the Jarl of Dawnstar that he would need to read after Loriel left.

                “Ulfric? Why do you have an Altmer engagement band?”

                _What?_

                The Jarl looked over his shoulder to see Loriel standing at one of his display cases, leaned over it to peer through the glass.

                “What are you talking about?”

                “You have an Altmer engagement ring in this case.”

                In his confusion, Ulfric approached to see what Loriel was referring to.

                The ring in question was an old thing of twisted metal, gold and corroded copper spun tightly together. It was worn and battered and neglected and a deep groove ran over a thin edge.

                “I found it when I was just a lad,” Ulfric recalled thoughtfully. “At the riverside, near the mill to the east of the city.”

                Now that he was looking at the ring, he remembered that day even more clearly.

                He had been very young, a boy of only six, when his father took him to his favorite spot to go fishing for what ended up being the last time before he became the student of the Greybeards. The wind had been cold but the sun had been warm on that last day before the frost came.

                His father and he were sitting together at the stones, those big hands holding his small hands, one of his small hands on the knife and the other on the fish as Hoag taught him how to clean and gut. And as young Ulfric laughed about how gross the guts were, like most little boys did, his father noticed something curious.

                He pointed at one of the organs and told him to take that one and separate it from the rest. Cut it open.

                Ulfric didn’t understand why until he did as he was told.

                At first, Ulfric didn’t notice it among the rest of whatever the salmon had eaten, until he had shifted some of the stuff around. Then he saw what his father had seen through the wall of the stomach.

                The solid shape of that ring, green wrapped with yellow. It was a spun band of copper and gold, Hoag told him.

                Ulfric thought it was oddly pretty for something that had been sitting in a fish’s guts and said so.

                His statement made his father laugh.

                Ulfric kept the ring, and when they got home, before they went to enjoy the evening’s supper of salmon the young Jarl-to-be had helped his father catch, the boy had tucked it away in a box full of collected junk items and miscellaneous things he had found.

                And when Ulfric returned from the war, all those years after, that ring had been one of the few treasures he had found as a boy that he had decided to keep as a man.

                The ring had reminded him of better times, back when he was blissfully unaware of the world, and his father was making memories with him.

                He didn’t tell the story to Loriel though.

                “You are sure this is a wedding ring?”

                “An _engagement_ band, and yes I’m sure. Altmer and Bosmer cultures make our engagements of love known to the public with rings. This one is of Altmer make,” he explained, looking to the Jarl. “A second and much plainer band is worn together with this after the ceremony.”

                Ulfric was enlightened vaguely. Because of the Thalmor, he had never really cared much to know Altmer culture, but knowing that one of his pretty childhood treasures was a benign if not happy memento of their kind, it made him more willing to absently tuck away that knowledge rather than forget.

                “Why a second ring?” he found himself asking.

                “Because if the Altmer is widowed and does not wish to remarry, they remove their engagement band only. A sign of the strength of their devotion to their love.”

                Ulfric lifted his eyes to Loriel, a soft smile on the bard’s lips as he explained his culture. Eyes still on that ring.

                “Your culture is different than ours,” Ulfric admitted and shook his head, finding himself smiling a little with a laugh.

                “We are, but Mara looks upon both of our kinds. Nords notice and ask based on interest all because the presence of an amulet shows that person is available. Altmer… because we live much longer lives, we take more time with developing our relationships, and when one feels that they truly wish to marry that person, they will ask. The set of bands are custom made for the pair upon the announcement of the engagement.”

                The entire affair of Altmer engagements sounded especially personal in comparison to Nords.

                Ulfric had witnessed a few attempts of courtship in his life. Some had ended in marriage, while many poor sods were left in disappointment when their interest was not returned.

                “It sounds nice.”

                Loriel looked to him and simply smiled, something soft and fond.

                “I did not think I would stumble across a reminder of something good from the Isle. Thank you.”

                That smile left a feeling in his chest that lingered until well after Loriel had left for the evening to go sing at the New Gnisis Cornerclub, and Ulfric pondered over that feeling for a long time without any luck of finding any answers.


	8. Chapter Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just FYI, this is also posted on my Fanfiction account too. Same name, same story. Enjoy. And don't forget to comment please.

                Ulfric stared at his housecarl through half-lidded eyes as he listened to the man give him various reports from all the Stormcloak camps that had come in during the last few days. More dragon sightings but so far the Imperials seemed to have more losses by dragon attacks than Ulfric’s own forces. It appeared that Tullius had not given any of his men the order to move closer to shelter, stand their ground and fight back, which gave the Jarl a bit of an edge.

                He could count on both hands how many soldiers he had lost to dragons and most of them were part of patrol in various towns and Stormcloak-sided holds that had come under attack. Tullius however was losing men by the handful.

                Arson had said that death only made his problem stronger, that dragon he was supposed to stop from bringing about the end of the world, and Ulfric wondered if having some inconspicuous people among his forces send out advice to the Imperial camps might help Arson’s case. If he did and those inconspicuous individuals were found out to be Stormcloak allies, the Imperials would likely think that it was an effort to trick them and only cause more death.

                Ulfric rubbed his mouth.

                Perhaps sending a letter to the Dragonborn for further advice would be in his best interest.

                Arson’s at least. Not so much for the Stormcloak leader.

                Divines only know how long it would take for it to make it to the Dragonborn from the way he liked to occasionally disappear into hiding. Or the more likely thing was he was taking off his disguise and being his actual self as often as he could. That might be why no one could find him.

                But still, it was worth an effort.

                From what he had heard, the only person who had somewhat easy contact with Arson was the Jarl of Whiterun. A stream of contact rather than going by courier. The letter gets handed off to one person to another to another to another until it reached the Dragonborn. Perhaps it was in Ulfric’s best interest as well to find out just whose hands the letters were passing through to get in touch with Arson faster.

                He would send a courier out first, see how that worked out.

                Hopefully it would reach Arson quickly.

                “Send an extra shipment of provisions to the camps. I would prefer they wait out a dragon attack in the shelters rather than fight back against the beasts,” Ulfric instructed his housecarl before he uncapped his ink well and picked up his quill to start forging a letter to Arson, a simple but short request asking for his presence in Windhelm.

                As he placed the last punctuation and signed his name, the thought of a particular bard crossed his mind.

                That had been happening a lot lately since he and Loriel had their long talk two weeks ago.

                At first it was only once or twice, just an absent image of that elf would flash through the forefront of his thoughts and would be gone just as fast, but now he had gotten to the point of stewing on the thoughts a bit.

                He enjoyed Loriel’s company. He was witty. And funny. Smart. And Passionate.

                Admittedly, he liked him for more than just company.

                Ulfric liked listening to the elf just talk.

                A lot of people liked to listen to the elf, especially when he sang.

                Elda was having a lot more income on the slow nights and the New Gnisis Cornerclub was bordering on being packed on the nights he came to sing.

                Loriel knew songs from all over Tamriel, songs from the Summerset Isles, and High Rock, and Hammerfell, and Valenwood, and Elsweyr, and Cyrodiil, and Black Marsh, and Morrowind, and Skyrim.

                He knew songs both new and old.

                The Bards College must have suffered greatly with the loss of the bard.

                And frankly Ulfric was glad to have almost horded the presence of the Altmer to Windhelm.

                He hadn’t heard of Loriel staying at any other city aside from just passing through when adventuring or staying a couple nights. And he never ventured far from Stormcloak territory.

                The bard was starting to become widely known among the Stormcloaks too, and with so many guards knowing him by sight, it also meant that Ulfric could get to hear more rumors that came back to him while Loriel was off exploring.

                But he liked the elf more than just his chatter.

                He liked him.

                His presence made a war in his chest yet at the same time he felt peaceful.

                That rush from running under dragonfire and the calm of watching over Windhelm from the view of the nearby mountains.

                All at once.

                It had been just over four months since he first met Loriel back at Helgen.

                And now there were moments where he thought of the elf and almost felt _starved_.

                He didn’t know how to explain it.

                Loriel’s presence was like a drug.

                A narcotic like sleeping tree sap.

                Addictive.

                But at the same time it helped ease the worst of the pain.

                He wondered where Loriel was now.

                Five days ago he had left the city in his traveling cloak and Ulfric had been so busy with his business with the war, keeping his men alive, and governing a city that he didn’t have a chance to see the Altmer more than once every couple days, often in brief passings.

                The market.

                The docks.

                The Hall.

                But Loriel never visited the palace.

                He never visited Ulfric.

                And he quietly wondered why.

                He put down his quill and watched Galmar speak to Yrsarald calmly against the war table.

                The two of them were arranging the shipments to be sent out to the soldiers.

                And Ulfric wondered if the needs of his soldiers could be met. He was putting a lot of stress on the local farms, but you couldn’t make food grow faster by ordering it to.

                At this rate, he would have to reach out, make some trades to keep his soldiers alive under dragon attacks.

                He hoped that Arson would be able to remedy this dragon problem so he could be able to relax his safety net over his soldiers.

                Tullius was probably wondering why Ulfric hadn’t made a move yet.

                Arson’s request was the reason why.

                And he knew that his soldiers were getting antsy for a fight.

                It would have to wait.

                Dragons posed a bigger problem than the war.

                Winning the war meant nothing if the dragon infestation was not put under control like any pest problem.

                And Arson was the only one who could take care of that problem.

                The war wasn’t his to fight. It wasn’t his circus, it wasn’t his skeevers, it wasn’t his problem.

                His problem could destroy the world though.

                And that problem was everyone’s problem too.

                It was a lot of responsibility to go on one man’s shoulders.

                And he prayed to Talos to protect Arson on his quest.

                By the Gods he needed a drink.

                To get out of the Palace too.

                The stone walls almost felt too confining and he just wanted to breathe.

                And he thought.

                Hadn’t some of the guards mentioned that the Black-Briar Meadery sending up a brand new brew to Candlehearth Hall?

                Black-Briar Reserve is what Maven was calling it.

                Frankly, if it was as good as the rest of her works, Ulfric could go with a taste.

                And Ulfric left the war room and the palace to go sample.

                Maven seemed to be growing quite smug with herself, taking over the Honningbrew Meadery in the last two months after finally convincing Sabjorn to make a partnership with her. The man had been holding out for a better business deal and they had finally come to an agreement on the asking price. With the expansion of the Black-Briar Meadery, there was certain to be better prices on Maven’s regular stock.

                Ulfric could smell the lunch that Nils was preparing as soon as he entered the Hall, and he blinked in surprise when he spotted Elda sitting on a stool behind the bar, her cheeks resting on her fists, dozing a little. She looked tired.

                “Elda?”

                “Hm?”

                Her eyes fluttered open and when she saw him, she bolted upright.

                “Ah! Hello, Jarl Ulfric!” she greeted, startled.

                He restrained a small smile.

                “Good morning, Elda. It’s unusual to see you so tired.”

                “It’s nothing, just feeling a little under the weather.”

                “Perhaps you should take a few days to relax if you are not feeling well. Nils could look after the Hall,” Ulfric suggested.

                “I suppose I could, although I have to admit I trust Lore more than Nils with the numbers,” she admitted.

                “I heard Loriel left a few days ago.”

                “He got back late last night. Said he had a contact in Whiterun who was able to get ahold of some books he wanted.”

                Ulfric blinked in surprise and felt some relief sift into his chest.

                Loriel was back.

                “He’s usually awake by now,” she noted, sounding a bit curious, perhaps to why the elf wasn’t out and about yet, and he watched as she rubbed her eyes.

                “How about I go rouse him and tell him to take over the bar while you go get some rest?” Ulfric suggested.

                “You don’t need to do that, Jarl…”

                He shook his head. “Which room is his?”

                Elda was silent for a long moment before she sighed. “Second on the left.”

                The Jarl gave her a small, comfortable smile before he went down the hall to knock on the door with two light taps.

                “Two seconds, El!”

                So Loriel was awake.

                “Baby, move,” he heard Loriel say softly before the door opened and Ulfric found himself face to face with a man who looked like he had just barely rolled out of bed before the Jarl had come to his door.

                Loriel’s long hair was tousled and wild and stuck up in odd spots from sleep, part of it skewed in front of his wide and wakeful eyes and a couple strands clung to those lips of his, and an oversized miner’s shirt was slipping off one of his shoulders, the dark gold of lightning spell scarring trailing up the exposed skin of his shoulder and throat, an amulet around his neck but he couldn’t see which one. The shirt was so large on the Altmer’s frame that he probably could have worn it by itself as a nightshirt.

                “Did I wake you?”

                “No actually. What can I do for you? Come in, I hope you don’t mind if I finish arranging myself,” he said in absence, motioning Ulfric in and as he turned back around to retreat, Ulfric allowed his eyes to drop lower on the Altmer as he followed.

                Beneath the long edge of that shirt, Ulfric could see deep brown pants that looked like they weren’t made of cloth but rather… leather. Very, _very_ soft leather. His feet were bare on the wooden floor, long toes splayed with every step.

                He took a deep breath, stilling some teasing thoughts that he wanted to entertain, and closed the door after him, giving Loriel some privacy while he finished dressing.

                “Elda is a bit under the weather,” Ulfric started.

                “I _told_ her if she needed me to take over the counter I would,” Loriel interrupted with a sigh, pulling the huge shirt off over his head, the pants just barely hanging onto the bony edges of his hips, the muscles of the Altmer’s back strong and tight like a well strung bow. He could see the shift in his shoulder blades with every movement and the curve of his spine. He was long and lean but not as thin as Ulfric had thought he had been back in Helgen.

                Or perhaps he just hadn’t been observing as closely as he was now.

                It was all Ulfric could do to tear his eyes away from where the leather met the rest of his skin when he heard the soft _mew_ and watched Loriel lean over at the headboard where an orange kitten was proudly posed, little ears wiggling proudly and tail straight up in the air.

                “When did you get that?”

                “I found him while I was in Whiterun. Poor little guy was hungry and cold. Fed him a bit of my lunch and he wouldn’t stop following me. So, I brought him with,” Loriel answered, giving the kitten a few strokes and kissing it on the head, the kitten purring loudly and squeaked.

                Ulfric didn’t know if he should laugh or not.

                “Does Elda know?”

                “Yes, Jarl of Windhelm, your innkeeper knows I now have a cat. She also knows that I am responsible for any messes this wee babe makes and I will pay her to take care of the beastie if I’m ever out of the city,” Loriel said, turning a bit to look back to him.

                The lightning scar that started at the right side of his incredibly toned abs went all the way up his chest and fine lines trailed along his neck and across his shoulder, a single branch ending at his bicep, and below that sharp collarbone of his, a polished Amulet of Akatosh rested on his sternum. A distance below that, fine blond hairs dipped down below his navel and disappeared into his barely laced pants.

                Talos help him, the sight of the half-dressed Mer was making him lose his mind…

                Loriel gave him a curious look in silence before he shook his head with a smile.

                “You seem distracted. Something bothering you?” he asked.

                _You_ , Ulfric wanted to say.

                “It’s nothing, it’s been a long day.”

                “It’s lunch time, Ulfric,” the bard said skeptically.

                Alright, Loriel was _making_ it a long day.

                Ulfric casually averted his gaze from Loriel’s and looked to the desk.

                A stack of books sat on the surface, two of them open and there was a roll of paper pinned beside it. It looked like Loriel was trying to translate something, and Ulfric curiously stepped over to the desk.

                He blinked when he recognized the first book. It was Songs of Skyrim. The second book was a book on dragons.

                The page the song book was on was a song Ulfric recognized, for the song was written in the Dragon’s Alphabet in one of the scrolls he had seen back in High Hrothgar as a boy.

                The Dragonborn’s Song.

                “You’re trying to translate this?” Ulfric asked.

                “Yes. The only word I recognize is the word everyone heard from the Throat of the World. _Dovahkiin_. So I’m assuming that it is in dragon’s tongue.”

                Ulfric scoffed, reading over the words, “Well you’re not wrong.”

                And Ulfric read the song’s Dovah-Zul aloud.

                “ _Dovahkiin, Dovahkiin,_

 _Naal ok zin los vahriin,_  
                Wah dein vokul mahfaeraak ahst vaal!  
                Ahrk fin norok paal graan fod nust hon zindro zaan,  
                Dovahkiin, fah hin kogaan mu draal!  
  
                _Huzrah nu, kul do od, wah aan bok lingrah vod,_  
                Ahrk fin tey, boziik fun, do fin gein!  
                Wo lost fron wah ney dov, ahrk fin reyliik do jul,  
                Voth aan suleyk wah ronit faal Krein!  
  
_Ahrk fin zul, rok drey kod, nau tol morokei frod,_  
                Rul lot Taazokaan motaad voth kein!  
                Sahrot Thu'um, med aan tuz, vey zeim hokoron pah,  
                Ol fin Dovahkiin komeyt ok rein!  
  
                _Ahrk fin Kel lost prodah, do ved viing ko fin krah,_  
                Tol fod zeymah win kein meyz fundein!  
                Alduin, Feyn do Jun, kruziik vokun staadnau,  
                Voth aan bahlok wah diivon fin lein!  


                _Nuz aan sul, fent alok, fod fin vul dovah nok,_  
                Fen kos nahlot mahfaeraak ahrk ruz!  
                Paaz Keizaal fen kos stin nol bein Alduin jot,  
                Dovahkiin kos fin saviik do muz!”

 

                It had been a long time since he had spoken so much Dovah-Zul all at once. The Greybeards were the only ones more fluent in the language than he was, and there were moments where he had to pause and recall the correct vocal tilt in some words.

                For the song though, he didn’t sing. He knew the words, but there was no tune. He really didn’t have the voice for singing, either. Not like Loriel.

                When he looked back to the bard though, he blinked in surprise.

                The Altmer was staring at him with his jaw slack, completely flabbergasted, the sheer amount of shock and awe that he managed to make appear on the Mer’s face made him feel rather proud.

                “Can you do that again?” Loriel blurted out, his voice pitched with excitement as he came over to the table, still shirtless, the ties of his pants barely done up, and he snatched up his quill and opened his ink well.

                “I couldn’t figure out the pronunciations, this is amazing,” he gushed.

                Ulfric blinked in surprise, a smile on his mouth that he covered with his hand.

                “If you’d like, I can also tell you the translation.”

                “ _You_ are a linguist’s dream come _true_! Yes! Please!”

                Ulfric wetted his lips and leaned over the book while Loriel leaned over the paper. And they began.

                Loriel’s quick, neat scrawl was a bard’s pride, nice enough to maybe go into a published journal released to the public, and he wrote down the phonics of every word in Dovah-Zul with the translation to each line following, looking absolutely ecstatic with every verse. It took some pondering over the proper meaning for some of the lines, but Loriel and Ulfric figured it out.

                “I could kiss you, I really could,” Loriel told him as he finished the last line and Ulfric almost wanted to ask him if that was an offer. But he didn’t. He felt his face flush though as the startling image of himself pressing Loriel back against a wall flashed through his mind for the briefest of moments; mouths pressed together in eagerness, hands in each other’s hair, those hands smelling like ink and parchment, and the elf warm body pressed up against his and-

                And Ulfric had to stop himself.

                He swallowed hard and cleared his throat.

                “You should get dressed and go help your host. I think I have delayed you considerably,” he managed to verbalize.

                Loriel blinked.

                “Shoot, you’re right,” he noted and went back to the bed where he had shirt draped over the edge of the bed, waiting to be pulled on. He tucked the hem into his pants and laced the leathers up before wrapping a wide belt around his waist, making him look well put together. Then, he plopped onto the bed and went to pull on some boots that went up to his knees, the heel on the boot looking a bit thicker than most shoes would have. While he was jerking the laces tight, the orange creature climbed up Loriel’s back and peered over the edge of his shoulder, tail high and proud in the air.

                The Altmer glanced to the kitten and cupped the creature with his hand to give it another kiss on the head.

                “You behave while I’m gone,” he told the cat before picking it up and plopping it back down on the bed, then standing and he came over to the desk again, moving things so the fuzzy creature wouldn’t knock them over and he pinned the paper with a thick leather needle straight to the wall so it could dry without getting chewed on.

                And then he turned to Ulfric, his hair still a mess and he grinned.

                “If you need me for any reason, I am in your debt for this, I truly am,” Loriel told him before opening the door.

                Ulfric ended up leaving in such a hurry he had entirely forgotten the reason he had gone to Candlehearth Hall in the first place until after he was halfway up the steps to his room.

                Damn the mead, what he really wanted a taste of was that elf’s mouth!

                His heart was in his throat as he closed the door behind him and dropped himself onto the edge of his bed, allowing himself to flop back and stare up at the ceiling.

                Damn that elf.

                Damn those gleaming eyes and that wicked smile and that sharp collarbone and…

                Oh for the love of Talos, he was losing his mind.

                And he spent the rest of the day pouring over his paperwork, trying to keep the thought of that bard out of his mind, and he was successful until the moment his head met the pillow and he was back to that small room in Candlehearth Hall.

                In his dreams, he pinned one slim wrist above Loriel’s head to the wall with one hand and the other felt along the muscles of his torso, mouth against mouth. _Gods_ , his skin under his hand almost felt like it was burning him. Loriel’s free hand tangled itself in Ulfric’s hair, eager and needy and he heard Loriel _moan_ against his lips and-

                Ulfric woke up feeling downright euphoric.

                He felt hot and breathless and he didn’t have to look down his body to know that he was standing tall beneath the blankets.

                “Fuck,” he groaned and rubbed his face.

                He needed a cold bath.

                And the Jarl of Eastmarch Hold ended up needing several the next four days.

                The day that the Argonians started cleaning up the Grey Quarter to prepare for the craftsmen to come, the bard spent all afternoon down in the area, singing for them and his voice could be heard all the way to the doors of the Palace of the Kings.

                It was downright maddening for the Jarl, hearing that voice every single time someone came in or out.

                And it was like that every day for the next two weeks as Loriel sang for the craftsmen as they came to take care of the outside of the Grey Quarter and every day when the craftsmen came in to give the Jarl an update on the progress, they commented on the bard who would sit on one of the barrels outside of the Used Goods store and sing.

                The pretty Altmer with the pretty voice.

                Some of them wanted to know if he could be hired out.

                Ulfric told them to take that up with the bard.

                Every night was another dream of that bard and that mouth and those eyes and those hands and by the _Gods_ what he would do to drink him in.

                Every morning was the feeling of euphoria and tented bedsheets and a cold bath.

                He was grateful for his strength of will to avoid the temptation to touch himself, knowing that giving in to the desire would only make it that much harder to not want the elf in his bed.

                There were a few reasons why he didn’t.

                The first and foremost was because there was a war going on.

                He never let himself take up a lover during battles that there was no foreseeable end in sight, it was too easy to get hurt as a result if that lover was captured and tortured. Having a lover during wars was also _distracting_.

                The second was that he didn’t think he would ever be able to keep him away from the elf after taking him just once.

                Once was a sampling bite of a feast he wanted to gorge himself on. He might have intended for it to only being a one-time thing but he knew he would end up longing for the elf as a lover.

                The third was that the bard was a wanted fugitive.

                If he got too close to Loriel, got emotionally attached, and if the Thalmor came and snatched him up, took him away, tortured him, killed him, Ulfric would feel wounded as a result.

                And the fourth was that he didn’t know if Loriel felt even vaguely close to the same way.

                So over all, Ulfric couldn’t.

                He had to focus on his people and the war he was leading.

                He couldn’t allow himself to think on Loriel for too long.

                It would only lead to trouble.

                The last day that the craftsmen were supposed to be down at the Grey Quarter was also the morning Loriel headed out of the city wearing his traveling cloak again. And when the last craftsmen left, Ulfric decided to go down and see the fruits of their labors.

                Even before he reached the Grey Quarter, although perhaps it could go back to being called the Snow Quarter again, Ulfric could hear the sounds of music and laughter, seeping up from the stoney section of the city. Children were racing about outside with sweets and treats and adults had bottles of Dunmer alcohol broken out just for the occasion. New flags had been posted up and Dunmer lanterns hung lit in front of every doorway.

                Everyone was celebrating.

                The air of joy in the Quarter was well worth the coin Ulfric had put out.

                The place looked a lot better now.

                Ulfric made a note to keep hiring the Argonians to routinely clean the Quarter.

                It would put more coin in the pockets of the Argonians, making them happier, not living in squander would make the Dunmer happier, and making both of those races in Windhelm happier would in turn make Loriel happier as well.

                That wasn’t the original intention but that elf was just making a domino effect all across the city.

                He had seized the heart of the less fortunate, had the admiration from the Nords, and Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak himself was doing his damnedest to not lust after the Mer all because he had seen the man half naked before lunch.

                He supposed he had been longing for him long before that though.

                Like lit tinder, the rest of the wood caught back in that room in Candlehearth Hall.

                Then, he heard that bright voice, loud and the edges of it as curved as his handwriting from drinking.

                “I’m _telling_ you, the stuff you need is vintage brandy. _Vintage_ brandy! Auri-El be blessed, what I’d do to get a taste of that stuff again, it’s got to have been at least thirty-eight years. No, no, not that long. Twenty? Twenty sounds right.”

                “Vintage brandy huh? Sounds expensive.”

                “It is but it is so very worth it. A bottle of that stuff hits like a horse though. Auri-El save you if you drink a bottle on your lonesome and don’t have friends sticking around to make sure you don’t do something stupid. You’d wake up halfway across the Isle missing half your clothes and feeling like you got kicked by a giant too!”

                At the words, the Dunmer laughed and Loriel was laughing with them.

                Ulfric had never heard Loriel laugh like that before, and he liked the sound of it greatly.

                The Jarl looked ahead as a pair of children ran by him, the two looking up at him in awe for a moment before going back to playing, and he watched Loriel as he walked backwards, his face red from drinking and he was chattering with excitement to a pair of Dunmer, occasionally stumbling and the other elves would occasionally reach out to keep him from falling on his ass.

                They were all so preoccupied they didn’t even notice Galmar Stone-Fist’s intoxicated younger brother coming towards them, a bottle of mead in his hand and he looked seething.

                Loriel walked right into him and Rolff gave him a hard shove.

                “Get out of our city, knife-ears. This is Nord land.”

                The two Dunmer caught the Altmer before he fell over and Loriel turned himself to look at him.

                “You’d think you’d learn your lesson after the first few times but no,” he heard Loriel drawl, righting himself.

                “Lore,” one of the Dunmer said, imploring him to not do this.

                “I’ve got this, no worries,” the elf said, waving off his friends.

                “You think you’re so high and mighty, high elf? Go fuck yourself. You aren’t worth piss here in Windhelm.”

                Ulfric wanted to approach.

                “You think you’re better than me? Fight me then. I think we both know who will win.”

                That was all the encouragement Rolff needed to lunge at Loriel and the elf’s stance immediately changed, cocking a fist back and slammed it into the Nord’s jaw, sending him off kilter.

                Ulfric blinked in surprise as he watched the brawl go on, Rolff’s drunken anger making him an easy target for Loriel’s drunken skill and Loriel taunted him, making him make mistakes before he caught the man’s wrist and grabbed him by the front of his shirt and _threw_ him.

                The Nord landed in a heap at the bottom of the stairs and groaned in pain.

                The effort it took to pull off that move left the bard staggering a bit before steadying himself with a hand against the wall, shaking his head to clear the drunken haze from his mind, and Ulfric watched him smirk, turning back to the pile of drunken Nord.

                Then, Ulfric observed as he slowly wandered over to Rolff and stood right over him, those long legs splayed wide, and leaned over, his hands on his knees.

                It was a fantastic view of the Altmer’s backside in those leather pants of his.

                It was certainly distracting enough that he almost, _almost_ missed what Loriel said.

                “Correct me if I’m wrong, Stone-Fist, but I’d say you’re a bit in love with me. After all, you keep starting all these fights with me and letting me win.”

                “Go suck off a Dunmer,” Rolff spat.

                “Now _there’s_ an idea. Unfortunately though,” Loriel drawled, straightening himself slowly, “None of these fine gentlemen seem to be available. Pity.”

                And he stepped over Rolff and started his way towards Candlehearth Hall, calling back over his shoulder to the Dunmers, “Later, boys!”

                Rolff snarled as he sat up and the Dunmer stood leaning against each other, watching Loriel’s retreat and the Nord made it to his feet before trying to start after the Mer.

                Ulfric stepped around Loriel’s company and caught the Nord by the collar before he could make it too far after the bard.

                He had lost the fight fair and square and taking cheap shots in the aftermath weren’t going to change the fact.

                “I think you need to sober up,” he told the drunk before he made eye contact with one of the guards who was descending the stairs past Loriel. “Escort him to the bloodworks. I’m sure a cell will help sober him up. The city’s in a fine mood tonight, I would hate for it to get ruined.”

                Rolff squawked in protest when the guard took him under the arm and lead him away.

                Ulfric had told Galmar what would happen if he got caught again.

                Rolff had been told too.

                And now it had happened and Ulfric wasn’t going to tolerate it.

                And now with the drunken Nord taken care of, Ulfric went to check on Loriel’s progress in making it back to the Hall.

                He hadn’t made it very far though, just halfway down the stairs to the lower path, and he had paused to lean his forehead against the cold wall, collect himself and keep himself steady before he either fell over or passed out or both.

                “Need a little help?” Ulfric asked and Loriel lifted his head to look back to him.

                And Ulfric drank in the sight of that slow smile that could only ever be described as sultry on those lips, those eyes half-lidded and almost glowing.

                The expression made his breath catch.

                “You, my wonderful friend, are a miracle man,” Loriel said, turning before his foot slipped out from beneath him and he went down hard and fast, his hip colliding with the cold stones and he hissed sharply.

                “Owww fuck…” he moaned as Ulfric came to his side.

                “Think anything’s damaged?”

                “My pride maybe?”

                The quip made Ulfric chuckle and he leaned down to pull one of Loriel’s arms over his shoulders and held onto that wrist, his other hand going about the elf’s torso and he hauled him up.

                Even with the cold around them and the thick shirt the bard wore, Ulfric could feel the muscles beneath his hand radiating heat. Long and lean and toned. His hand slid a little lower down his waist absently, only stopping when he felt the elf’s hand over his.

                Just lightly resting on it.

                The contact left Ulfric feeling like the sensation was being seared into his skin.

                “I take it you like what’s been done to the Snow Quarter,” Ulfric stated as he made Loriel walk, using Loriel’s superior height to his advantage to keep him steady.

                “Snow Quarter?”

                “The proper name of the Grey Quarter.”

                Loriel smiled and laughed, his head thrown back.

                “It’s amazing. I’ve never seen the Dunmer so happy.”

                Ulfric could only think of one other time he had seen _Loriel_ so happy, and it had been back in that little room of his, the two of them side by side over paper and ink and quills and books.

                That happiness was beautiful on the elf.

                “Hopefully this will suffice until after the war.”

                Loriel gave Ulfric’s hand a squeeze and Ulfric glanced at him as they made it up the stairs they opened the door to Candlehearth together.

                The elf greeted Elda brightly and she shook her head at his state, thanking the Jarl for bringing him back because goodness, what would the city think if the bard was found passed out drunk from his one night off that didn’t include adventuring.

                She opened the door for Loriel’s room for Ulfric and when the kitten dashed out underfoot, Elda went after the cat before it could cause any trouble, and Ulfric brought Loriel inside and dropped him onto the bed.

                The _sound_ that Loriel made went through him like lightning, the loud, low, heady _moan_ as his head lolled to the side against his pillow. “Oh by the _Divines_ …”

                He inhaled slow and deep and was promptly asleep.

                Ulfric swallowed down a lump in his throat and was almost startled by Elda when she came back into the room to deposit Loriel’s pet on his chest. The creature stood and looked up at the two Nords and gave a long mew at them before it started kneading the elf’s chest, purring loudly.

                Elda looked to the Jarl and smiled, and he gave a small, odd smile back.

                And they left the room.

                And Ulfric retreated to the Palace of the Kings.

                And dreamed of a feast of gold, and those long, strong, sunlight kissed legs wrapped around a sturdy waist, and the curves of that body beneath large hands, and the sound those lips made with teeth at his throat, and the sensation of sunlight on skin.

                And the euphoria he woke up to in the light of the early dawn was only punctuated as he gave into desire and when higher brain-function started to kick back in in the aftermath, Ulfric promised himself that once the war was over, he’d act on that desire.

                Arson better get his ass moving when it came to those dragons because Ulfric had a war to win.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FYI, guys, after this chapter there WILL be less vagueness of smut. And there will be smut. Much smut indeed.


	9. Chapter Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just FYI, this is also posted on my Fanfiction account too. Same name, same story. Enjoy. And don't forget to comment please.

                Ulfric had thought that the hangover Loriel was sure to have would be enough to keep the flighty Altmer grounded to Windhelm for a while but obviously it wasn’t enough of an ass-kicker to keep him from wandering right out the city gates in his traveling cloak again not two days after.

                He wondered where Loriel had run off to this time.

                That had been six days ago and he sighed as he gazed over the mess of paperwork that was his responsibility, the familiar discomfort of the war efforts.

                Tullius was getting impatient.

                A skirmish, a direct assault more specifically, had been staged on Morthal upon the Stormcloak camp there, and because Ulfric had the foresight to prepare his men well, they had been able to hold their ground and drive the Imperials back. Only a small handful of men were killed but if Arson knew of the losses he would still think it was too many lost.

                Where was _Arson_?

                The couriers usually took only a couple days to reach their target but Arson was an endless issue to find.

                It made Ulfric anxious.

                He wanted Arson’s advice.

                And he also wanted to tell him to hurry up with his efforts because there was a certain bard he wanted to hear singing a new tune for him.

                Three weeks and no sign of the Dragonborn at all.

                He had only heard of one sighting of the man in the last month, taking down two dragons in a two day span,

                One had been downed near the Ritual Stone in Whiterun Hold, and the other had been killed near Lost Knife Hideout in Eastmarch.

                Like the Dragonborn had been heading to Windhelm itself.

                But obviously that didn’t happen.

                Arson didn’t feel the need to visit.

                And Ulfric bit his knuckle thoughtfully.

                Where in Oblivion _was_ that man?

                His thoughts were distracted when he heard approaching armored footsteps and he looked up.

                He heard Galmar’s gruff voice and the sound of a soldier’s, and then silence.

                And then there was the unnatural sound of Galmar, laughing.

                And laughing very hard.

                The Jarl wondered what had brought that along, and he stood to see just what.

                The housecarl’s was breathless with laughter, a letter clutched to his chest and his grin was broad when he saw his Jarl and flapped the note at him. “Read it. Read it,” he insisted.

                And Ulfric did.

                And he covered his mouth, hiding pleasant surprise on his face.

                In the months that had passed since the coming of that black bastard of a dragon, Alduin Arson had called it, Ulfric had assumed things were in general going to continue to be rather dull and over-all absently problematic for the Stormcloaks when it came to the beasts, but it appeared that dragons _could_ be useful.

                Because it looked like a dragon had targeted the Thalmor Embassy two days ago.

                And evidently, the timing could not have been any worse for the Thalmor because Elenwen had decided to throw a party with all _sorts_ of important people present. Maven Black-Briar had been one such person present on the list.

                Ulfric was looking forward to hear the full rendition of what happened but for now, the message that told not only of the dragon attack killing every guard patrolling the property but also _lounging_ in the courtyard afterwards, keeping every occupant of the party stuck inside until it decided to leave with the afternoon sun, that was what made a bark of laughter climb up Ulfric’s throat. Without a doubt those milk-drinkers would not want to bother with the Thalmor and their entertainments until they could prove that they could handle _one_ measly dragon.

                It worked out in Ulfric’s favor.

                Stir up the Imperial’s contacts and make them shrink back in fear.

                They were not the hearty people that made up the Stormcloak forces.

                The Thalmor were manipulative bastards, but in the face of dragons, they could not wield fear.

                The Jarl and housecarl had a bottle of Black-Briar Reserve to quietly celebrate the occasion.

                And that night when Ulfric dreamed, he dreamed of the Aldmeri Dominion’s flag burning.

                It was burning and as the ashes fell, he woke to sunlight on his face.

                And he took a deep, peaceful breath.

                It was a simple dream but it gave him relief.

                And he got up for the day.

                Today, Ulfric was going to be going with the replacement for the soldiers at Fort Amol, check in and make sure everything was safe and secure and that the past shipments of food wasn’t getting over handled. It was for emergencies, not to gorge themselves on.

                Not that he didn’t trust the captain but he wanted to make sure the troops knew he was keeping an eye on things.

                They had a tendency to not pilfer things when they knew that the Stormcloak leader was watching.

                As he climbed his horse, Galmar held the beast steady and they confirmed with each other that the plan was for Ulfric to be back before sundown, and if he was not back by sundown the following day, it meant that something happened.

                And aside from taking down a giant at CradleCrush Rock, the entire trip was incredibly uneventful.

                The captain was surprised at Ulfric’s presence among the guard, as were most of the guards to be replaced, and they warmly welcomed the company with perhaps more respect than what they would have without the Jarl’s presence.

                Formalities were nothing more than a pleasantry and Ulfric could certainly do without.

                The Jarl got down to business right away as the arriving guards helped the ones that were returning to the city to pack up, making their exchanges while the captain and Ulfric checked on weapon-count, food, fortification of weak points in the walls, and Ulfric was pleased that everything appeared to be in order.

                The wind whistled sharply for a moment as the two stepped outside and the Jarl went to his horse to adjust the saddle.

                “You take care of our men, captain,” Ulfric told him.

                “Of cour-”

                The sharp whistle of wind happened again and that time Ulfric didn’t mistake it for the wind.

                It was the shriek of a dragon.

                Far too close for comfort.

                Far, _far_ too close for comfort.

                And then he saw the stretch of wings past the east entrance.

                _Fuck_.

                “Everyone inside! Get the horses under cover! Get them inside if you have to!” Ulfric immediately barked out orders.

                There were supplies that otherwise couldn’t be brought back to Windhelm if they lost those beasts under dragonfire.

                The soldiers hurried to do as instructed and a lookout on the wall cupped his hands around his mouth and Ulfric heard one distinct word.

                “ _ELF_!”

                And Ulfric’s attention ripped itself away from the rest of the soldiers and he immediately raced up the stairs to where the lookout was.

                His heart thundered in his chest.

                Golden hair and golden skin was wrapped in a traveling cloak as the figure ran as fast as it could towards the river, the dragon flying after and breathing fire that the figure barely dodged by rolling in an opposing direction before making it back to his feet and running.

                The cloak was an oddly familiar hue to Ulfric, and the way his white sleeves and gold hands poked out from slits made in just the right spots…

                It was Loriel!

                What was he doing out here?!

                The dragon’s jaws gaped as it flew low, right at the bard’s heels and much faster than the Mer was running.

                And then Loriel disappeared.

                “ _Loriel_!” Ulfric shouted.

                And then he saw that cloak rise from the ground where it had fallen and the bard scrambled to his feet to keep running, wading through the river as fast as he could while the dragon redirected its flight pattern to get back on track.

                Why was the dragon only going after him?

                “ _Come on_!” He shouted in encouragement as the bard sprinted up the slope towards the fort and he and the lookout headed towards the safety of the fort’s entrance.

                Those long legs carried the elf across the courtyard, half his face bloodied from turf burn and the dragon’s wings flapped to lift it above the wall of the fort.

                The moment the bard shot past him into the fort, he heard “ _YOL_ ” and he slammed the door before the breath of fire could reach inside, the door feeling hot under his hands and shoulder and he prayed to Talos that the heavy wood would withstand. It was almost hot enough that he felt like his hands were actually getting burned.

                After a long, heated moment, the sensation started to dissipate.

                Ulfric took a breath and then looked back over his shoulder at everyone who made it into the Fort.

                Not a single person was missing.

                Loriel was collapsed on the ground on his back, breathing heavily and a battlemaiden was hurrying to his side to see if he was seriously injured.

                “Just winded, go away,” the bard wheezed, his face screwed up in pain beneath the rough skid that marred his skin as he tried to catch his breath where he laid, hands clamped down over one side of his abdomen possibly from runner’s cramp.

                “Trying your hand at dragon hunting, elf?” the captain commented.

                “Don’t be a fuck-wit,” the Altmer responded crassly and a few of the soldiers snickered.

                At the sharp rumble, the horses that had been brought inside the fort panicked and the soldiers fell silent, Ulfric gazing up to the ceiling and he breathed out. “Better settle in, everyone. This is going to take a while. Let’s get those horses calm,” he instructed.

                He heard the battlemaiden tell Loriel “Let’s get those injuries checked out,” as she helped him go from laying to sitting to standing until the two of them went to walk out of the main area where there was too much clutter of people.

                Ulfric frowned.

                Loriel was in safe hands and so the Jarl made an effort with the men to try to pacify the steeds, although their efforts seemed to be in vain because every time the dragon made the fort shake from its assault on the building though, the horses would corner and shriek and back up and rear and it was all they could do just to keep all the horses on all four feet.

                It was when the fort shook for the Nth time that Ulfric ended up getting his face smashed into by his horse’s skull, knocking him to the ground as blood poured down his face from his shattered nose. For a long moment, while the men tried to reign his horse in in more of a hurry, making the creature only more anxious, Ulfric clutched his nose, staving off the sheer dizziness from the impact.

                He had heard of men getting killed because of getting headbutted by a horse so Ulfric knew for certain that he could have been struck a lot harder. Now that would be a poor story to tell in Sovngarde…

                One of the younger soldiers stepped over to the beasts and his hand glowed briefly before casting a spell.

                And suddenly, all the horses fell calm despite the ongoing assaults on the fort.

                And the other soldiers blinked in surprise.

                The young soldier looked a bit sheepish. “I’m from Winterhold… It’s a useful spell…” he muttered.

                “Very,” Ulfric agreed with a groan as he sat up. “Keep casting it.”

                The young Winterhold-Stormcloak nervously nodded at the order and the moment the spell wore off, he casted it again before the beasts could start to panic.

                One of the soldiers offered a hand to help Ulfric to his feet and another a bit of cloth for Ulfric to press to his gushing nose. One offered to escort him to the battlemaiden and he waved off the offer. He could get there just fine on his own. And as he walked through the fort, he steadied himself with a hand against the wall.

                He heard the voice of the battlemaiden, talking calmly, and Loriel’s brief responses, and as Ulfric rounded the corner, he took a moment to just… _stop_.

                Stop and observe.

                The battlemaiden was sitting on the other side of a table from Loriel, the Mer’s cloak, shirt, and pack hung over the back of his chair, his arm extended and twisted at the shoulder to expose the underside to the woman so she could clean the wound with a cloth and bowl of water, a healing potion sitting nearby. The injury went all the way from wrist to above his elbow, and Ulfric could see the turf burn on his face had already been tended to.

                Every so often, Loriel winced as she picked a bit of turf out of his arm and continued to wipe the raw scuff down with the cloth, and finally, she settled her hands over the skin and her hands glowed brightly with healing magics, the Altmer sighing as his burning nerve endings were soothed as a result.

                “There. Is that better?” the battlemaiden asked and Loriel nodded.

                “Yes, very. Thank you, Heidi.”

                Ulfric cleared his throat and both looked up.

                Loriel’s expression turned to shock and panic, and the battlemaiden only looked surprised as she stood to go over to him. “Come, sit down, sir,” she told him firmly.

                He sat down in an offered chair, glad to have some place to park himself before the disorientation got to him, and she took a new cloth to clean away the blood with careful strokes around the sensitive area.

                Over her head, Loriel still looked like he was in a state of anxiety at the sight.

                “Loriel, I’m fine,” the Jarl told him before hissing from a touch that felt harder than it probably was in reality.

                “So which of the boys did this?” the battlemaiden asked.

                “My horse.”

                “Ah.”

                Sounded like this wasn’t the first broken nose she had healed from a horse.

                Good, it meant she had skill with it.

                Loriel turned away, and as the muscles under his skin shifted, Ulfric allowed his eyes to travel lower.

                And they settled on a wound on the small of his back.

                Stretching from one side of his waist to the other was the raw marks of the wrong end of a whip. It looked like it had been around for months, but he had no memory of that injury being there the last time he had seen Loriel bare from the waist up. There had been no sign of pain the entire time Loriel had been back at Windhelm, no sign of pain when Loriel had fought Rolff, had leaned on Ulfric as they walked back to Candlehearth Hall, no sign of pain as he flopped down on the bed.

                No, that scar was new. Very new.

                Made within the last week.

                The shirt dropped down over the scar.

                He had all kinds of questions and he stilled them on his tongue as the battlemaiden finished cleaning his face before lifting her hands and utilizing her good quality healing magic on him.

                With the restoration spell, he felt the sharp throbbing and dizziness in his head subside and the sensitivity in his nose diminished. It didn’t take long before he felt as though he had never been hit by the horse at all.

                It wasn’t as excellent quality work as Loriel’s Thalmor brother could do, but it was still good work.

                He thanked the woman as she finished and she, Heidi, gave a pleased smile. “It is my pleasure to be of service to the Jarl,” she told him before she moved to clean up her things and go check to see if any other idiots had been injured by the horses.

                Once she was well enough away, Ulfric turned his attention back to Loriel, the man sifting through his pack anxiously.

                “Who did that to you?”

                The Altmer flinched with a start before he looked over his shoulder at Ulfric.

                “What?”

                He still seemed anxious.

                “Your back. Who did that to you?”

                The bard looked back to his pack, lips pressed thin.

                “Loriel.”

                He sucked in a breath and his voice was very quiet as he answered.

                “Thalmor.”

                Ulfric’s jaw clenched.

                _Bastards_!

                And Loriel went back to looking through his pack before he found whatever it was he was searching for. And he turned back to Ulfric, those amber eyes not meeting his and he extended a package to the Jarl, wrapped in waxed paper and tied with twine.

                “The Dragonborn stopped them. He gave me a healing potion. He told me to give you this,” he said quietly, his lips pressed thin in nervousness with his brows pinched.

                Hearing the title, Ulfric breathed in surprise before reaching out to take the package.

                The nervousness in Loriel was concerning though and he kept his eyes on him.

                “Thank you.”

                Loriel only nodded and Ulfric undid the twine, the pressed paper folding under his hands as he revealed the contents: a book, maybe a journal, and a scrap of paper on top. The handwriting on the page was scratchy and unfamiliar, but his mouth twitched as he read it.

                **_Got your note. Soon as I can._**

**_-A_ **

                He sighed in relief.

                It wasn’t a date but it gave him some assurance that Arson would be on his way.

                Ulfric’s heart stilled in his chest as he lifted the paper and read the lettering on the cover of the journal.

                It wasn’t a journal though.

                It was a dossier.

                A Thalmor Dossier.

                On him.

                He looked up to Loriel, wondering if he was aware of what the Dragonborn had made him deliver.

                “Did… He say anything else?”

                Loriel swallowed, anxious almost, and nodded.

                He hesitated before taking a breath to compose himself.

                “He won’t let Elenwen hurt you again.”

                Anger flared in his chest, so sudden that it hurt.

                He had _told_ Loriel that. That incredibly _personal_ fact. How had Arson _found out_?!

                _Why_ did he tell _Loriel_?!

                And he breathed in, slow and shuddered, controlling his anger from misdirecting it at the elf in front of him. And he swallowed.

                _Su’um ahrk morah_.

                Breathe and focus.

                Calm down.

                Calm down.

                And he took a deep breath.

                “Thank you, Loriel. For bringing this to me.”

                Loriel nodded, his smile small and tight and Ulfric reached out after tucking the Dossier into his cloak to read later. And lightly touched the Altmer’s elbow.

                “What’s wrong?”

                Loriel looked down to the contact.

                Anxious.

                “Elenwen,” he breathed out, “She’s… She’s…” and he swallowed hard, taking a couple deep breaths, eyes flickering back and forth in front of him before he let his eyes rise and meet Ulfric’s. “She’s the one assigned to my case.”

                So that was the cause of the nervousness.

                The fact that Loriel knew, to a degree at least, what Elenwen was capable of, knowing that she had been assigned to Ulfric’s case, and the fact that Arson, who likely didn’t know Loriel was a fugitive running from the Thalmor, had asked him to pass on that message and that package had likely made him anxious that the woman would not only come after Ulfric again, but come after Loriel again.

                Ulfric relaxed his shoulders and he gave Loriel’s arm a gentle squeeze.

                “She’s a damn fool if she thinks she can touch either of us in Eastmarch.”

                He still seemed a bit tense but smiled a little. And nodded.

                “Yeah,” he agreed, very quietly.

                Still anxious, but relaxing.

                Ulfric gave him a small, reassuring smile, and he motioned with his head. “Go on ahead back to the rest of the group. I’m going to read this. You know the drill with hiding from dragons,” he said with humor.

                It managed to make the Altmer laugh a little.

                One final squeeze of his hand on that arm and he let Loriel go.

                And Ulfric watched him go out of view before he turned his attention back to the Dossier, reading the contents.

                His breath caught in his throat.

                The Imperial City.

                It…

                It had fallen before…

                It wasn’t his fault.

                It hadn’t been his fault and they made him believe that it was.

                Allowed to escape though…

                Ulfric closed his eyes and tried to remember.

                He remembered the way the screw in one of the shackles had been wobbly.

                And remembered the way that by standing up fully and then dropping his weight, it had wretched the half of the shackle-board away from the wall and with it had loosened one of the cuffs. He only had to put a bit of effort into wretching his wrist free before he was able to undo the other one and he was able to get out of there.

                They had done it on purpose?

                Or was that just a lie?

                Everything else though, about being a useful asset, about contact, about-

                About everything else on there.

                He would have never agreed to any of it.

                He hated the Thalmor for what they had done to him.

                He wanted Elenwen to burn and suffer for everything she had done to him.

                As he turned the page, he noticed notes made all over the page with a heavy hand and uncoordinated ink spills, ones that never would have happened to the dossier under the careful hands of the Thalmor. The footnote made at that bottom in that same scratchy handwriting as had been on the note said five very simple words that made Ulfric smile.

                **_What a load of bullshit_**.

                That sounded like Arson.

                His other notes sounded like commentary as he read them, hearing the Dragonborn’s voice in his head as he read over little bits. And then, he noticed one curious bit.

                **_Thalmor -?Dragons?- Blades_**

**_Blame? Responsible?_ **

**_Why?_ **

                Beneath that, one word was circled multiple times.

                One name.

                **_Esbern?_**

                And then, one little bit at the very bottom.

                **_Need more time_**

**_Only the Thalmor will benefit_ **

**_Need to stop the war_ **

**_Redirect_ **

**_How?_ **

                He pressed his lips tight and rubbed his mouth.

                Were there other dossiers that Arson had found? More notes?

                He needed to discuss in depth with Arson, find the best method to help him.

                Arson was thinking of the war almost as much as he was thinking of the war.

                Of how to save people.

                Of how to take care of the real problem.

                The Thalmor.

                And Ulfric worried his lower lip between his teeth for a moment before he heard someone call out for him.

                Ulfric looked up and tucked away the dossier, stepping back to the main area where everyone was gathered. It had been unusually quiet, with no tremors lately, and the soldier who had pulled the short straw in going to check grinned as he told him that the dragon was gone. It had flown back the way it came.

                And Ulfric let out a breath of relief.

                It looked like they would be able to make it back to Windhelm well before sunset.

                And the company rode out, the battlemaiden giving her horse to Loriel in favor of riding with another soldier and Loriel was actively making a face the entire ride, evidently not caring for being on horseback.

                But it would be much faster than Loriel going by foot with the rest of them riding.

                And just like the ride to Fort Amol, the ride from was even more uneventful.

                The men did get to enjoy a few songs that Loriel sang to pass the time, and Ulfric enjoyed the sound of Loriel’s voice on the breeze. Not too loud but certainly loud enough for the entire company of guards going home to enjoy.

                The last note crept upon the wind as they neared the stables and as they dismounted, Ulfric looked back to Loriel.

                And found the Mer already looking at him.

                And a small smile made itself at home on his lips.

                The soldiers returning to Windhelm were glad to head to the barracks and it was in that moment where he took the opportunity to approach the Mer.

                “You know you are still welcome to visit the Palace of the Kings,” he said with a slight quirk of his brows.

                And Loriel smiled a little, giving his horse a small, hesitant pat.

                “I know. I just… Your time is valuable. I can’t just come into the Palace and want to sit down for a nice chat with you.”

                But he could.

                “It’s slow for the first few hours after dawn. I usually wake with the morning light.”

                And Loriel nodded.

                “I’ll keep that in mind.”

                And then Ulfric had an idea.

                “Care to have a drink with me?”

                “That would be nice,” Loriel agreed, voice content.

                The two of them walked side by side along the bridge and Loriel’s hand stretched out to push open the gate for Ulfric when they both heard a loud and deep voice call out.

                “Lovari!”

                And Loriel stilled in surprise, looking back and Ulfric followed his gaze.

                And found a bearded Redguard man wearing a set of Dawnguard armor standing a few yards back. His eyes were the most intense shade of sky blue he had ever seen, and he had a box strapped to his back like a weapon.

                “Isran,” Loriel breathed, his voice sounding in awe.

                Looks like that drink was going to be delayed…


	10. Chapter Nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just FYI, this is also posted on my Fanfiction account too. Same name, same story. Enjoy. And don't forget to comment please.

                For a long time, Loriel stood there in stunned silence at Ulfric’s side and just stared at Isran, founder of the new Dawnguard.

                From what Ulfric knew, the Dawnguard had made a comeback about twenty years ago and punctuated their place in the world by taking on an incredibly motivated clan of vampires and winning. Vampires who were organizing attacks, causing panic in just the right spots. It was the vampire’s war to claim the human race and they had been put down because of Isran’s efforts.

                Yet…

                “You can call me by my name, Isran.”

                The Dawnguard snorted and he stepped to close the distance between the three of them, stopping a comfortable distance away. It was close enough though that Ulfric could see the grey that heavily flecked through the man’s beard.

                “Jarl of Windhelm, good evening,” he greeted with a very slight bow, standing just an inch shorter than Ulfric himself and Loriel almost towering over both of them.

                “Good evening,” Ulfric replied, slow and cautious.

                Loriel pursed his lips for a moment and sighed. “You seem to have changed considerably since we last spoke.”

                “Only in age. That, though, hasn’t seemed to touch you,” Isran replied, lips curling upwards minutely.

                Loriel’s lips in turn curled downward heavily.

                “Why are you here, Isran?”

                The Redguard tilted his head, those eyes lifting to Loriel’s before he asked, “An old man can’t visit an old lover now that he’s surfaced from hiding?”

                The words made Ulfric breathe in in surprise while Loriel’s ears and face steadily flushed a shade of angry scarlet, visibly going tense as Ulfric felt.

                What?

                _What?_

                “If you’re here to ask me to rejoin the Dawnguard just so you can prove to me just how _expendable_ you think I am, the answer is no,” Loriel growled.

                The Dawnguard leader shook his head, those blue eyes almost glowing. “I’m not here to try to convince you of anything, Loriel. I just came to give you this. That’s all. Bat wanted you to have it,” he said and reached up to pat the box that was secured to his back.

                Ulfric felt his jaw tense.

                But Loriel though, his anger seemed to dissipate a little in surprise.

                “Bat?”

                Isran glanced away, his eyes along the bridge before he tilted his head. “Could we speak somewhere a little more private?” the man requested.

                The Jarl frankly wanted to say no but this conversation seemed to be entirely between Isran and Loriel. He glanced to the elf, not wanting to leave him alone with Isran. Not wanting to leave him alone with an old lover for fear that there was still embers that just needed to be stirred with a poker to come back to life again.

                Was Ulfric feeling a bit territorial?

                Absolutely.

                And the bard licked his lips quietly, expression concentrated before he glanced to Ulfric.

                “Could I borrow your main hall?” he asked.

                Praise _Talos_!

                He tried not to show his incredible relief at the request and only nodded.

                Loriel gave him a small, thankful smile.

                And Ulfric turned back to the gate, pushing it open ahead of them all, and lead the way back to the Palace of the Kings, Loriel a few short paces behind him and Isran even further back. Nothing was said between the three of them until Ulfric reached out and Loriel’s long arm beat him to the door.

                Again.

                Their eyes met with shared small smiles at what felt like an inside joke between just the two of them and the Altmer pushed it open, letting both Ulfric and Isran in before closing the door after.

                Isran gazed about the hall and nodded, approaching the end of the great table and eased the wooden box from his shoulders, finally placing it down on the table and Loriel came to stand beside him at the table.

                Ulfric only watched and observed, noting how slender Loriel was in comparison to the Redguard who was at least ten years his own senior. How young Loriel looked in comparison to them both.

                How old was Loriel?

                He knew that he had said he had come to Skyrim 34 years ago, had been on the run for quite some time before then, but how old was he? With the Mer races, one could never be certain.

                It would have to be a question for later though.

                Isran breathed in, his shoulders rising with the movement, “Bat left a few years ago. Decided to go back home and challenge his father for the title of chief. He seems to be doing well.”

                “Is he happy with that life? He always seemed…”

                “Adventurous? I think the journey that brought him to this might have started to cure him of that,” Isran said, a small amount of a laugh on the edge of his voice. “The scroll you brought back from the Cairn lead us straight to it. It helped us stop them. _You_ helped us stop them, even though you cut and ran to live your simple bard’s life at the College like you always wanted.”

                “Isran, I almost _died_ in the Soul Cairn. I don’t know about you but I personally think that dying is terrifying,” Loriel told him curtly.

                “You’re an Altmer. Your kind has always been a bit more protective of your long lives when not causing havoc.”

                “Compare me to the Aldmeri Dominion again and I will beat the teeth out of your head.”

                The threat made a relaxed smile cross Isran’s face.

                Open fondness.

                Perhaps Loriel made those kinds of threats often to Isran’s face in the past.

                “Just open the box, Elsinlock.”

                And Loriel’s face turned red with irritation.

                Or embarrassment.

                With the bard’s expression, it was hard to tell.

                He breathed in deeply and slowly let it out before he began to carefully undo the straps which kept the box closed and carefully lifted the fitted lid off. His movements slowed to a halt though as he rested his eyes on the contents.

                His jaw went slack, eyes growing wide in shock and awe, and he stood there frozen in stunned silence for a long time.

                Isran’s eyes glanced to Loriel’s expression and a small smile rested at his lips. “He said that the Bow of Auri-El best belonged in the hands of a devout worshiper.”

                The elf looked to him, expression still surprised but peaceful almost, lips parting to speak but he only drew in a breath.

                Then another.

                He closed his mouth.

                And then swallowed.

                And then he took one more breath.

                “He found Forgotten Vale.”

                The words were so quiet Ulfric almost missed them.

                And Isran nodded.

                “Serana thought you should have been there with them.”

                And Loriel took a surprised breath.

                And Isran gazed down to the contents of the box, changing the subject a little as he stated, “I thought the draw weight might be a bit much for you.”

                Loriel let out a soft breath, a small laugh maybe. “If it is, I’ll learn it,” he murmured, smiling at Isran in a way that made Ulfric frown, and looked down into the box before he reached in and drew out a bow that looked almost elven in design, uncharacteristically modest in comparison to the modern versions but undeniably ornate and lovely. There was also no sign of wear or use on the bow at all. No sign of scuffs from anyone ever dropping the bow or having it knocked from their hands or ever shot an arrow from it. It looked…

                Timeless.

                And unlike the modern versions as well, this bow stood out silvery against Loriel’s golden skin.

                As did the unique quiver full of arrows that he drew out as well.

                Loriel seemed absolutely entranced by the gift Isran had brought to him, and for a long time, there was only silence as those amber eyes took in every detail of the perhaps priceless artifact. And those pale sky blue eyes never left the elf’s face.

                He recognized the soft look Isran wore.

                He recognized the thought behind it.

                And that thought was that the creature he was looking at was undeniably beautiful.

                The Jarl felt a pang in his chest.

                He knew the definition behind the word jealous and the definition behind the word territorial and he wasn’t sure which one he was feeling now.

                Jealous was wanting something that wasn’t yours, but Loriel wasn’t Isran’s.

                And territorial was protecting something that already was yours, but Loriel wasn’t his.

                The difference between them though was that Isran had already had Loriel once.

                Ulfric still had the dragons and the war to deal with before he could allow himself the opportunity to seize what he wanted.

                Isran reached out and put a dark hand on Loriel’s forearm. “Send a courier to the Dawnguard if you ever need more of those sunhallowed arrows. I’ll send up Serana. Let you two catch up. Maybe go on an adventure to explore the Forgotten Vale yourself,” he suggested.

                Loriel tore his eyes away from the bow.

                “Thank you, Isran.”

                The Redguard looked away, almost not seeming to want to meet those amber eyes after letting his expression slip into fondness. “Don’t get all sentimental on me now, elf.”

                And the Altmer huffed, a slight smile on his lips as he muttered something crass under his breath.

                Those sky blue eyes met those amber ones, an amused smile on those dark lips. “Take care of yourself,” and he gave Loriel’s arm a light squeeze before he turned and walked out of the Palace of Kings, leaving the elf standing there, looking after him with that bow and quiver in his hands.

                He settled on which definition that feeling was.

                And he breathed out, long and slow and soothing.

                _Su’um ahrk morah_.

                Breathe and focus.

                And Ulfric stepped close to Loriel, lightly nudging his bow-hand with the edge of his knuckles, the action making those amber eyes focus on him instead of the retreat of Isran and their eyes met.

                “I’m assuming there is a story behind all that that I would enjoy hearing?” he suggested.

                And Loriel smiled. Relaxed compared to how he had been at the fort.

                “If that offer for a drink is still on the table, I’ll be happy to tell you it.”

                That drink would always be on the table if it meant having Loriel looking at him with those eyes.

                And as the evening lingered, Ulfric got to hear about Loriel’s grand adventure of joining the Dawnguard after returning to Skyrim after spending years in Solstheim. Eighteen years ago. He had spent two years in the Dawnguard before leaving after a near death experience while locating an Elder Scroll in a place called the Soul Cairn, a plane of existence in Oblivion where all souls that were once contained in soul gems went after being used, proving that the souls were never really destroyed. He, an Orc named Bat the Axe, and a woman named Serana, a Nord noblewoman Ulfric had never heard of and good friend to Loriel during those years, ventured into the Soul Cairn to find the woman’s mother who had in her possession the Elder Scroll that could reveal the location of a great weapon that could destroy the vampires that had been organizing attacks on the population of mortals, wanting to be able to feast without abandon and reign power over the living.

                Loriel hadn’t seen the point in dying for _anything_ let alone any _one_. Especially not because Isran wanted to complete his goal in destroying the vampires and didn’t seem to care about the number of Dawnguard members that were lost in the effort.

                “You and Isran though… You seem to have history.”

                Loriel sighed as he stretched out his legs, bare feet towards the fire, his head resting against the back of Ulfric’s headboard, his bottle of mead loose in his fingers and he made a face. “I guess it could be called that,” he admitted.

                Ulfric tilted his head, sitting on the floor not far from him.

                He couldn’t remember the last time he had sat on the floor by the fire, just talking with someone. Maybe the last time had been with his father, when he had been just a boy.

                “I originally met Isran while he was still a Vigilant of Stendaar, before he got fed up with their laxness on the whole threat of vampires and left. Actually, now that I think about it, he’s probably one of the reasons I survived long enough to get out of Skyrim before the war,” he said and took a long swig of mead, unaware of Ulfric’s eyes upon his throat as he swallowed. “I was traveling through the south of the Pale when I got attacked by a group of vampires Isran and his partner had been tracking. Got hurt pretty bad too, but the two of them showed up before I could either be killed or infected. It was his partner though, Celann, he’s the reason I didn’t get left for dead. He took the time to argue with Isran about helping me, about bringing me back to the Hall of Vigilance to recover. Keeper Carcette was _pissed_. Apparently Isran had been acting out more and more on his own. She assigned him to being responsible for my recovery. He looked at it like it was a punishment. Pretty sure he hated me for it. Pretty sure I hated him too. By the _Gods_ he was an ass back then, but that hasn’t changed much. I was stuck there for a couple months before I heard whispers about the oncoming war and I took the first horse I could find to the docks of Windhelm to ship out while still recovering,” he explained.

                He drained the rest of his mead and neatly set the bottle on the floor, curling his toes absently.

                “When I came back, I heard about the vampire attacks that were starting to become more obnoxious, and the effort to stop them going on to the east of Riften. And low and behold, there was Isran in all his self-entitled righteousness, leading it all. Celann was there too. We had always gotten along so I decided to stick around, see if this threat was anything close to what Isran was all up in arms about. Turned out that it was. I met Serana about that time. She was the very _daughter_ of that leader of vampires, and I had brought her _back_ to her family like the honest idiot that I was. Her _father_ offered me a chance to become one of them. To become a vampire. A vampire _lord_ , an incredible subset to vampires as a race. Stronger, faster, better than normal vampires with the ability to transform themselves into another creature entirely. It was terrifying. I got out of there as fast as I could. The Dawnguard was under attack when I got back. Isran… I had been gone without contact for so long that he thought I had been killed.”

                And Loriel drew his feet up the steps of the elevated platform, draping his arms around his knees and resting his chin on them, making the tall Altmer look very small.

                “He had been worried. That took me by surprise. He didn’t worry about anyone. But there he was, worrying about me. I guess it all went from there. When I wasn’t running around Skyrim, stopping vampire attacks and doing as ordered, I found myself sharing his bed. I suppose my biggest problem with Isran as a lover was that he wasn’t kind, to anyone really. His biggest problem with me seemed to be that I cared too much. It made us butt heads pretty often. A lot of screaming matches happened. My last straw was when out of ten Dawnguard members only Serana, Bat, and I survived infiltrating the castle, just to find Serana’s mother. He just…”

                And Loriel closed his eyes in frustration.

                “He just didn’t _care_. He didn’t care that I came back terrified after the Soul Cairn. He just cared that we came back with the Elder Scroll. I cut my losses after that. I didn’t want to be with someone who only saw me as an expendable resource.”

                Expendable.

                Loriel was anything but expendable.

                Any mortal with _eyes_ would know that.

                “And then you went to the Bard’s College.”

                “Yep. And lived a safe and incredibly _boring_ life after I completed my year-long journeymanship for the College out in Rorikstead. And then _you_ came along and turned everything on its head,” Loriel said and fixed him with a look that ended up transforming into a mirthful grin when Ulfric laughed.

                For a long time, the two of them sat there, enjoying the fire and the quiet and Ulfric opened another bottle of mead for the elf. He didn’t want their conversation to come to an end just yet and it wasn’t as though Loriel had someplace he needed to be quite yet. The cat that was waiting for Loriel back at his room in Candlehearth Hall could wait a few more hours, Ulfric thought.

                Ulfric took a swig from his bottle as he gazed to the fire, soaking in the warmth not far from the Mer.

                “So tell me about the bow Isran gave you,” Ulfric absently requested.

                The answer would hopefully explain to Ulfric a second question that he had without him needing to flat out ask.

                It was a request that Loriel was all too happy to fulfill.

                Loriel spoke with such enthusiasm about the bow, explaining that the bow’s powers were suggested to be drawn from Aetherins itself by channeling it through the sun. Using sunhallowed arrows with the bow made it a powerful weapon against vampires or undead in general. It was also rumored that it was the same bow used to send Lorkhan’s heart into the sea. It didn’t answer Ulfric’s question about who Auri-El was, leading for the Jarl to finally ask.

                “He is better known as Akatosh in your culture,” Loriel told him, tugging his amulet out from beneath the collar of his shirt.

                Oh.

                Ulfric lifted his eyes from the amulet, following the curve of Loriel’s throat and up to his eyes.

                He liked knowing that those eyes were on him.

                “You’ll have to forgive my curiosity on this next question, some think it’s rude to ask, but how old _are_ you?”

                Loriel blinked and tilted his head thoughtfully. Ulfric took another long pull from his bottle.

                “94.”

                The Jarl inhaled his mead.

                Coughing, choking, and sputtering, Loriel gave him a few hard pats on the back, his expression startled from Ulfric’s seemingly random fit until Ulfric wheezed out, “How old?”, looking at the Altmer through watering eyes.

                Loriel blinked and then his brow furrowed.

                “You’re seriously surprised at my age?”

                Ulfric rubbed his throat, wincing, “It’s hard to tell with your kind.”

                And Loriel frowned gently and rubbed his forehead. “Well… It is suggested by lore that it was Phynaster who taught the Altmer how to extend their own natural life by taking shorter strides. Most of us can live into our second century, although rare individuals have survived to be 300,” he admitted.

                Ulfric found himself staring in surprise.

                _300?_

                That meant that one Mer could easily accomplish three times as much as a Man could in one lifetime.

                “Then might you live a long life,” Ulfric found himself saying.

                Loriel shook his head and looked back to the fire. “Frankly, I’d rather live a short one knowing that I’ve done something good with it.”

                And he took a sip from his bottle.

                He wondered.

                “And have you?”

                It made those glowing amber eyes look back to him and Loriel smiled, something small and almost sad. “Lived a good life? Not as good as I would have hoped,” he admitted, “Although I have to say that burning down the Thalmor Hall of Records has certainly been the highlight of the good I can do.”

                A smile reached Ulfric’s mouth.

                “And how long ago was that accomplished?”

                “If I recall correctly, 50 years.”

                “That’s a long time for the Thalmor to be looking for you.”

                “I’ve found that any mistakes I’ve made give them encouragement. I was captured while traveling through Valenwood six years after I got out of there, managed to escape, and had to give them the wild goose chase of a lifetime after I was spotted in Morrowind before dropping off the radar until-” and he gave an absent wave of hand at Ulfric.

                They didn’t need to really bring that part up.

                “So how did you escape from Valenwood?”

                And Loriel grinned sheepishly.

                “Let’s just say that the Bosmer are just about as fond of fire as spriggans are.”

                That made Ulfric laugh before he saw Loriel’s expression shift and then he yawned widely, the visual contagion making the Jarl yawn as well and he inwardly cursed.

                He was enjoying Loriel’s company and conversation.

                “I guess it’s about time for me to turn in for the night,” Loriel said and hid another yawn behind his hand.

                “I suppose so,” Ulfric agreed, making his way to his feet while Loriel went about pulling on his boots, not bothering to lace them properly before standing up as well.

                And Ulfric walked Loriel to the doors of the Palace, stopping the Altmer though with a hand on his shoulder when the thought struck him, “If I might make a request, bard, before you leave.”

                Loriel looked at him with curious eyes.

                “Come visit.”

                And those lips curved into a smile.

                “If that’s what my Jarl wishes, I will.”

                And Ulfric was satisfied.

                _My jarl_.

                That sounded very pleasing on that tongue.

                And Ulfric carried those two words on that voice into his dreams.

                And in that dream, he had the bard pinned down against the great table in the main hall, bottles of mead rattling with every sharp thrust he made into the elf’s lean body, one long leg over his shoulder as he kept a bruising hold against those golden hips, the other hand keeping his neck hyperextended, thumb and forefinger under his jaw, his palm feeling every throb of those veins in his throat, every swallow, every sound as Ulfric extracted it from those vocal cords.

                On the table above his head, the bow, the quiver, and the arrows rattled every time Ulfric made Loriel cry out.

                “Say it,” he heard his own voice request.

                That sultry smile was so intoxicating as his back arched up off the table with a pleased moan and Loriel obeyed.

                “Yours.”

                Ulfric woke on his stomach, the heat of the sun on his back, feeling well rested, and for the dream that he had woken from, incredibly satisfied. The last sensation he was aware of though was that his bed felt wet.

                _Huh?_

                The Jarl sat up and looked down at the spot on the bed, realizing that for the first time since he was a young man he had managed to orgasm in his sleep.

                Now that was impressive.

                And vaguely embarrassing.

                He breathed deeply and let it out slowly before he got up for the day. A bath was in order, followed by meditation, and then, breakfast.

                _Yours_.

                By the Divines did he want Loriel and he wanted _all_ of him.

                It was approaching two months of longing for the elf, three of the most recent weeks desperately wanting to know what the bard’s lips tasted like and maybe a considerable amount more, and a day longer than a week of wanting to fuck Loriel so completely and utterly senseless.

                He had to reign himself in quite a bit over the next two days.

                Actually he had to reign himself in a lot over the last two months but since that dream, it was growing rather difficult to not keep his head on swivel every time he walked out of the Palace of the Kings hoping to spot the Altmer.

                And Galmar noticed it too.

                And his displeasure on the subject was vocalized.

                “What are you, in love with the elf?” Galmar grumbled once they were away from prying ears.

                The suggestion made Ulfric’s heart stir and he crossed his arms over his chest. “Fond. He is good company.”

                “Fond my axe, your eyes follow him everywhere. Just whet your appetite with the bastard and be done with it.”

                Ulfric was fairly certain Galmar had no idea what he just suggested. He knew that what Galmar meant was for Ulfric to simply have a one night stand with Loriel and think no more about it but that would only make him want the elf more.

                The Jarl sighed and told Galmar not to be so crass and went about putting his bear skin cloak on for a visit to the Temple of Talos that morning.

                He was about to open the door when it opened just ahead of Ulfric’s reach and he found himself face to face with Loriel.

                They both blinked in surprise at each other.

                It took a moment before Loriel flushed. “Is it a bad time to visit?”

                “Only if you mind accompanying me to the Temple of Talos?” Ulfric asked in reply.

                And the elf smiled.

                The Mer had his traveling cloak over his shoulders, which likely meant that he planned on traveling again very soon.

                “Off on another adventure?” Ulfric asked as Loriel held the door open for Ulfric to step out.

                “Yeah. There’s something I got tied up in that needs my attention,” he admitted.

                “Any idea when you will be back?”

                And Loriel shook his head. “That one I don’t know yet,” he admitted, “But I’m hoping it will be less than two weeks.”

                Two weeks was going to feel like a long time to Ulfric in his absence but he only gave a small nod despite his displeasure. “The city will certainly miss you in your absence.”

                Loriel smiled and opened the door to the Temple of Talos ahead of Ulfric and the Jarl heard a soft, heavy sigh behind him as the elf stepped inside after him.

                And Ulfric gazed up at the statue of the god-hero to mankind.

                The emperor Tiber Septim. Hjalti Early-Beard. Ysmir. General Talos Stormcrown.

                These were all names that the deity held, all of them representations of different points in his life, but to be know about Talos as a man was to know that the General Stormcrown had been someone who could unite the people together. Who could make peace among the warring.

                Taking a deep breath, Ulfric broke from Loriel’s side and approached the altar in silence. He drew his amulet from beneath his collar and clutched it in his hand before he knelt and bowed his head. And he prayed.

                Slow deep breaths.

                _Su’um ahrk morah_.

                Breathe and focus.

                All he was aware of beyond himself was the absent sounds of the temple around him as he beseeched Talos for strength until he felt that calmness that came with praying, that feeling of peacefulness that he always felt when he was ready to approach the rest of the day after worship. Ulfric’s eyes opened and he stood.

                Loriel was waiting for him by the entrance of the temple, patient and peaceful.

                “When you pray to him, what do you pray for?” he heard the elf ask quietly.

                He gazed over his shoulder back to the statue. To the altar.

                To his patron god.

                “I pray for strength,” he told him and under those intense amber eyes, he took a breath. “I pray for the strength to be a good man. For the strength to do what is right. For more than just myself but for my people as well. I pray for strength that should I face a challenge that scares me I might overcome it.”

                Those eyes softened.

                “You’re already the strongest person I know.”

                _You’re already the strongest person I know_.

                He wished he felt that way about himself.

                And his eyes dropped from the Altmer’s eyes, trailing down his face, over that long nose and slim lips, down his throat, and they stopped at the chain for Loriel’s amulet of Akatosh.

                “Do you pray to your Auri-El?”

                Loriel smiled softly.             “Every day.”

                There was no altar to Akatosh in Windhelm. No small shrine to Akatosh in Loriel’s room either.

                “When you pray to him, what do you pray for?” Ulfric asked.

                The Altmer drew in a soft, deep breath, and their eyes met again.

                “Patience,” he answered quietly and he smiled.

                Ulfric took a breath.

                And smiled back.

                The quiet between the two of them was calm as Ulfric escorted Loriel to the gate of Windhelm and watched him go.

                And as he left, the Jarl of Windhelm prayed for Talos to protect him.


	11. Chapter Ten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just FYI, this is also posted on my Fanfiction account too. Same name, same story. Enjoy. And don't forget to comment please.

                Galmar was personally glad that Loriel was off adventuring again and he commented on it multiple times over the following four days after Ulfric had seen the bard out of the city.

                “Galmar. Enough,” Ulfric finally barked at him, personally exhausted with his housecarl’s reminders that he was supposedly more productive as a Jarl and leader of the rebellion when the bard was absent. It was starting to set his teeth on edge. And the only person who seemed to think that he was less productive when Loriel was in the city just so happened to be Galmar as well. And frankly, Ulfric was starting to consider joining another patrol just to get _away_ from the man who once stood at his side during the Great War.

                He was glad though to hold some secrets from Galmar.

                If the man knew that Loriel was the brother to Elenwen’s aid, there was a high chance that Galmar would have taken it upon himself to have Loriel arrested just for that fact. It was about as intelligent as putting Galmar in a jail cell because his brother was still getting drunk and harassing the Dunmer, although occurrences of that were becoming less frequent with Elda beginning to refuse to serve Rolff.

                Ulfric sighed and rubbed his face.

                Four days and he was missing Loriel already.

                He wondered about the Mer’s adventures. And what was this thing that he had gotten himself tied up into this time?

                It made him incredibly curious, and worried all at once. He wondered what Loriel _did_ when he was away from Windhelm. He knew that there were times when he would travel north to Winterhold or south to Riften, but the long stretches that went without the Mer being seen at all were troubling to the Jarl.

                He lifted his eyes to his housecarl, “For what reasons do you hate that elf so much?”

                Galmar scoffed and crossed his arms over his chest. “Those who are unwilling to fight the Empire do not belong in Skyrim.”

                “So would you condemn the many others who also do not fight in our name, even those who also do not fight against us, just as you are condemning him?”

                The housecarl barked out, “They’re _Nords_! Men! True people of Skyrim! The elves have brought us nothing but trouble! And that _elf_ has brought nothing but trouble to Windhelm and he has conned you out of valuable resources that could have been used for the war and turned those resources towards those worthless greyskins! They won’t fight for our cause and neither will he-”

                “Skyrim is home to more than Nords,” Ulfric interrupted, “Just as Windhelm is home to more than just Nords. That _elf_ reminded me that I have a duty to the people of my city, just as much as I have a duty to the rest of Eastmarch as well. I do not travel about my hold, personally seeing to the affairs and troubles of the land I am responsible for just to neglect a single piece right under my very nose! Simply because they are _elves_! How can I be a leader to the people of Skyrim if I am unable to take care of the responsibility I already have?”

                Galmar looked affronted.

                And for a long time, the two of them stared across the war table at each other, the air thick with hostility.

                And Ulfric breathes in deeply.

                “This discussion is over. Go see where today’s report is.”

                And the discussion _was_ over.

                Ulfric thought no more of it, and that was how he preferred it until a very worrisome thing started to catch Ulfric’s attention increasingly through the two weeks that followed.

                It was two things, really.

                The first was that Loriel was late.

                And the second was that there were reports of kidnappings, some even happening in broad daylight, of Altmer men going missing from the roads of Eastmarch and it didn’t take a genius to figure out that the Thalmor were pulling a dangerous stunt by sneaking about in Ulfric’s territory, trying to find _Loriel_.

                Why was Loriel so _late_?

                Where _was_ he?

                It wasn’t _safe_!

                All rumors of the bard that passed through the lips of Stormcloak guards were absent, meaning that Loriel had pulled another disappearing act, and in good timing too. Just four days after Loriel left, word rose from Riften that agents of the Thalmor had gone down into the Ratway, although none returned.

                Those thieves down there seemed to be becoming more efficient, even with the trouble they caused in the wake of regaining their footholds in Skyrim over the last ten years. There might be honor among thieves yet, protecting their own meager bit of territory under the city.

                Ulfric rubbed his mouth.

                He needed to get out of the Palace.

                Breathe some fresh air.

                Maybe he could join a patrol.

                What patrols were going out today?

                As Ulfric found out, there was a replacement patrol going to relieve the ones in Kynesgrove.

                It would be good to see how the Malachite mining was doing as well since Oengul War-Anvil had discovered a method to reinforce the chainmail of the Stormcloak cuirasses by curing the metal in a bath of Malachite before heating it one final time. The discovery would help save the lives of his soldiers, be it under dragonfire or Imperial armed forces.

                Kynesgrove had made improvements, fortifications for its people if the small town fell under the attack of dragonfire again, and Ulfric felt that it was about time to inspect those improvements as well.

                Divines only know that Ulfric’s duties to his people came before the war, and at the moment, Tullius seemed to be recovering from another dragon attack that happened in Solitude itself, which gave the Stormcloaks some breathing room if only for a little while.

                And so Ulfric went with the replacement patrol.

                The town was close enough that he did not feel it was necessary to bring his horse from the comfort of its stable for the meager adventure and he was able to enjoy the talk of the guards among themselves once they were beyond the idea that joking around Ulfric was not a huge offense.

                The guards who were glad to return home were surprised to see Ulfric, although the head of the town was pleased by the unexpected visit. Part for business, part for pleasure. It would give him something for his snide son to brag about and Ulfric was very content with the idea of putting the boy in his place if he opened his mouth about the Dunmer who worked in the town, a fact Ulfric had heard from one of the guards. Braidwood Inn was a hearty place and the guards that were leaving were settling in for one last good meal while Ulfric spoke with Iddra.

                The woman poured him a good tankard of handsome dark ale and the taste was incredibly full-bodied and sweet. He would always be a mead man but it was damn good ale, Ulfric would admit to that.

                He pondered over if he should ask for a barrel of the stuff to bring back. Find out from Loriel if it was as good as the vintage brandy he had been gushing to the Dunmer about.

                Ulfric had to stop a wonder of if he might ever get to have a taste of Vintage Brandy off the lips of that bard.

                When the war was over, perhaps.

                It was an enjoyable thought, one that he would have to entertain later.

                A fair amount of time later as Ulfric noticed the dark liquid in his tankard tremble at the same time as a high, distant sound echoed from outside. It sounded like a whisper from within the Inn, but Ulfric would have to be deaf, dumb, and blind to not recognize it.

                _Dragon_.

                Soldiers who also recognized the sound were on their feet not long after Ulfric had bolted from his chair, all of them filing outside to see where the source of the sound was, just as another impossibly loud scream ripped into the air.

                It was from the south.

                Not as far as Windhelm was from Kynesgrove, which meant it was far too close for comfort, but as he gazed in the direction that the sound came from, he recognized the next Thu’um and his heart seized in his chest.

                “ _KRII LUN AUS_!”

                It was a mortal shout that retched that Thu’um into life.

                The Dragonborn.

                _Arson_!

                Ulfric bolted away from the soldiers, his ears roaring with the sound of his blood, ignoring the shouts behind him as he hurried down the south road and followed the sounds of the dragon’s pissed off roars.

                He saw wings, brittle and spindly and on the edge of a slope, on the edge of a rock face, he saw the back of Arson’s patchwork armor, a sword of bone clutched in his hand, the other free as it came up towards his face.

                “ _FUS RO DAH_!”

                The sound was like thunder, snapping just as hard as the impact that slammed into the dragon and its wings faltered, making it drop lower below the slope and Arson jumped.

                From the corner of his eye, he could see the soldiers gathering with him to watch, seeing Arson clinging to the dragon’s skull as the beast tried to throw him off, wings flapping in angry gusts before the Dragonborn let go and was swung up into the air, adjusting his grip on his sword and impaling it through the dragon’s head as he fell back towards the earth.

                The creature let out a pained scream and Arson shoved himself off the beast, flipping backwards in his jump and disappearing below the slope.

                The loud crash from the impact of the beast’s body made the ground tremble beneath Ulfric’s feet and he found himself moving down the slope, catching a glimpse of Arson staggering to his feet and then taking a few steps back from the body, his sword still lingering in the dragon’s skull.

                What happened next was beyond words.

                It was like watching the man get hit with an arrow, a sharp gasp and his legs failed him, forcing him to his knees, a hand bracing himself on the ground before the body of the dragon began to crumble to fire and Ulfric felt the warmth of that dragon’s soul as it rose and rushed for Arson.

                It disappeared after enclosing the man in its warmth.

                For some reason, the color, the wavering shades of gold and flames, it made him think of a dream.

                Of a dragon swathed in shimmering, shifting tones of gold and fire.

                And it left only a dragon’s skeleton, it’s hord, and a Dragonborn in its wake.

                Letting out a soft breath, Ulfric drew close to the man and reached out to put a hand on his shoulder.

                “Arso-”

                “ _Don’t touch me_!” the Dragonborn hissed, wincing away from Ulfric’s hand and the Jarl took a step back from the sound of sheer _wrath_ in his voice.

                There was nothing but silence between them as the dust settled and Arson puffed behind his mask, his shoulders drooping.

                “I- I’m sorry… Just… just give me a minute. Please,” Arson finally said, his hand coming to cover his face after a while and he eventually shifted his legs to sit, elbows on his knees and resting his head on his hands, trying to take deep breaths.

                Under all that armor, under the scorch of dragonfire and the beating rays of the sun and all that Arson had done, Ulfric wondered if the Dragonborn might suffer from heatstroke as a result.

                He knew he would in Arson’s situation.

                Gazing to the soldiers, he frowned deeply. “Someone give the Dragonborn some water.”

                No doubt he desperately needed it.

                A few offered their water skins and Ulfric took one that looked full, presenting it to Arson.

                He looked up and took the offering. Lifting the wrap about his shoulders until it was about his face and under the secure covering, he heard the unmuffled breaths of the Dragonborn and the eager gulps, only lowering the wrap after everything had been resituated and he gave back the empty waterskin.

                “Thank you, Ulfric.”

                Ulfric nodded wordlessly.

                “That was impressive,” Ulfric stated.

                “What? Bringing it a mortal death or taking its mortality for my own strength?”

                _There’s a difference?_

                “Yes?”

                The Dragonborn let out an irritated huff at the response.

                “Killing dragons is a pain in the ass. Wanting to fight them is to want to have a glorified death. Suicide. I don’t want to fight them but I have a duty to. As for their souls… I struggle with my own as it is. I don’t need theirs helping with the chaos,” he stated, shaking his head before staggering to his feet. He stepped over to the skeleton and pried his sword from its skull with his foot on the bone, almost falling back before he righted himself on his feet and picked up what horde it had dropped.

                Bones and skin and coins and gems and some poor dead fool’s boots. He shoved the boots into the mouth of the dragon’s skull in disgust before he looked around.

                “I need a river…”

                After a moment, he approached the cliff edge and rolled his shoulders upon resting his eyes upon the White River below. Then he turned around.

                “Make sure this doesn’t run off, will you?” he stated, slipping the straps of the scroll from his back and tossing the ornate object directly to the Jarl. Then, he turned back to the cliff and he jumped.

                There was the sound of feet hitting wood and then then the sound of a Sabercat’s snarl.

                “Fuck _me_.”

                Well that served Arson right.

                Ulfric couldn’t remember the last time _anyone_ treated him so nonchalantly, like a servant almost, and the soldiers seemed just as offended. The Jarl huffed, one hand on his hip as the other gripped the scroll, as he approached the cliff edge and observed Arson as he pulled his blade free from the shoulder of the beast he had disturbed, dropped his excess on the ground, and waded into the river to soak himself free of the heat.

                The Jarl looked back to the soldiers and they all went around the edge of the cliff to the river, finding a decrepit looking shack that Arson had landed on, and upon further inspection, discovered that the original owner had met his demise at the teeth of the animal Arson had just killed.

                “Put him to rest,” Ulfric told his men and one of them found a shovel by the neglected garden to start digging a hole.

                “Poor sod.”

                He turned around to see Arson sludging out of the water, probably feeling about twenty pounds heavier from the water weight in his armor, every heavy breath blowing water from the mask in a fine mist which without a doubt made it more difficult to breathe. Arson picked up the length of fabric he had dropped and then draped it about his head again and after a bit of effort, pulled the mask free from his face.

                Beneath that wrap, Ulfric realized, Arson had exposed himself.

                And it felt incredibly startling.

                “That feels a lot better,” the Dragonborn breathed in relief.

                “Perhaps you should invest in more breathable armor,” Ulfric suggested.

                “Perhaps dragons should stop giving me a reason to kill them,” Arson shot back.

                He sighed.

                Well neither of them had control over _that_ …

                He offered the scroll back to Arson and he stated his thanks, resituating it before stepping into the shack and around the remains, hanging his mask over the bars of the cooking spit so that it might dry by the dying fire. A couple logs were tossed into it and a few pokes and it was back to a roaring hearth.

                Watching as Arson seemingly made himself at home, he wrapped his arms around himself, a thought wandering across his mind. “I got your message.”

                “I know.”

                “How could you?”

                “That Mer was on an errand this week that paralleled with my own,” he said, giving a tap to the scroll he wore.

                Arson had seen Loriel.

                “How was he when you saw him?”

                “Well considering we were in Blackreach…” Arson trailed off, looking through the food barrels and giving a laugh before he reached in and extracted a couple bottles of mead. “Jumpy. He almost took the nose off my face when I stumbled onto him.”

                Blackreach.

                Ulfric drew in a startled breath.

                “ _The_ Blackreach?” he asked.

                “Yes, _the_ Blackreach. Amazingly gorgeous, never seen so many giant mushrooms in my life. Or Red Nirnroot. I don’t think water should glow though… Then there’s the hordes of Falmer. The Mer was good help with them.”

                “Was he safe?”

                Arson paused and looked back at Ulfric slowly.

                “You worry about him?”

                He offered Ulfric a bottle of mead and the Jarl took it only because he didn’t know what else to do with himself. He needed something to occupy his hands, to give him a reason to hold onto his silence. “He has made himself good company to the people of Windhelm.”

                “But you worry about him.”

                _Yes, you daft fool, I worry about him_!

                He pulled the cork and took a swallow, keeping his silence, gazing out the door to the river as the soldiers came to put the corpse in the grave.

                Arson stepped outside after the soldiers, tugging along his wet armor until he lifted a spot and pulled out a coin purse from a hidden pocket. Opening the bag, he instead pulled out a single Stalhrim medallion. Once the body was in the grave, he leaned down and pushed the scale between the dead man’s teeth. And then he stepped back, allowing him to be buried.

                “Do you pay all corpses that respect?” Ulfric found himself asking.

                “Just the people I’ve been made familiar with. This man though… I knew him. Back before this dragon business happened. Back before the world even cared about who Arson was. Back when I was only known as a traveler and a scavenger. This man was a good man, if a little unhinged.

                That might have explained what he was going all the way out here…

                “In your note, you said you wanted to talk to me about something.”

                It had been so long that Ulfric had almost forgotten actually, and he wracked his brain to remember before drawing a breath to speak. “It’s about what you mentioned during your visit to Windhelm. About how the deaths of men only made your problem stronger. I’ve made arrangements with my men to keep them safer under dragonfire but Tullius is losing men by the handful.”

                Arson sighed. “You certainly will make a good king,” he murmured before sharply rolling his shoulders and Ulfric heard his back crunch. And he sighed again. That sounded like it felt better.

                It was a statement that Ulfric felt incredibly proud to hear, especially coming from the Dragonborn.

                “I made the suggestion to do the same as you to Tullius, but he’s…” and he shook his head, pressing the heel of his hand to his forehead and massaged a spot that bothered him. And he drew another breath. “If Tullius is stupid enough not to heed my advice in what to do with his men, their deaths rest on his shoulders alone. He can either follow in your example or the stupid _s’wit_ can explain to the Emperor why he is losing men by the legion to overgrown fire-breathing flying _lizards_.”

                The way he said it made laughter bubble up from the Jarl’s stomach and he smiled, watching as the Dragonborn leaned against the wall of the shack and uncorked his bottle of mead.

                Tilting his head beneath the shroud of fabric, he drank. “There’s something I need to share with you, Ulfric. A concern of mine,” he said, his voice calm and low.

                And Ulfric continued to lean against the open doorway. “I’m listening.”

                Arson took a deep breath and lowered his bottle.

                “I have a contact within the Thalmor. While I have undeniable faith in his abilities, I worry that one of these days his betrayal will be found out. I am asking of you to be willing to take him under your wing should that happen.”

                He took a breath and a swallow of mead, thinking.

                The dossier had likely been lifted from the Thalmor Embassy, either passed on by hand from this contact or during the dragon attack. An ally on the inside was incredibly valuable, especially with Arson’s hatred of the Thalmor.

                “Who is this contact?”

                “It would be safer to not say, for both his sake and yours. But when he comes to you, I have instructed him to give you a riddle. That's how you’ll know.”

                “A riddle?”

                There was a small laugh of amusement and Arson lifted his face towards the sun. “ _This thing all things devours: birds, beasts, trees, flowers; gnaws iron, bites steel; grinds hard stones to meal; slays kings, ruins towns, and beats high mountains down._ ”

                Ulric looked at him quizzically.

                What a riddle…

                He wondered the answer.

                “I will commit it to memory. And puzzle over it when I have time. Are you on your way somewhere?”

                “Off to face off against my destiny.”

                He let out a nervous breath and pushed himself away from the wall, leaving a wet impression of himself against the wood before going inside and snatching up his dry mask to put it on beneath the cover of his mask.

                “Everyone has faith in your ability to win.”

                “I don’t think anyone should have that much faith in one man, let alone everyone…”

                He was worried. Scared even.

                And Ulfric watched that tense back as he unwrapped the fabric from his shoulders and face. And then frowned.

                There was something.

                A loose lock of hair, peeking out from the edge of the mask that extended down his neck.

                It was fine and pale, blond although the exact shade couldn’t be told in the poor light.

                “A moment,” Ulfric murmured, stepping close and he slipped his fingers under the edge of that mask.

                A simple swipe along the Dragonborn’s shoulders, his back going tense under the touch, and Ulfric withdrew, Arson immediately reaching to the spot Ulfric had touched as he turned and looked at him.

                Ulfric knew at least one fact about the man now.

                Arson’s hair was long and blond.

                Only one, but it gave him a narrow idea of the man.

                Even if Arson had a Nord’s accent, he could be almost any of the humanoid races, be it elf or man, anyone who had lived in Skyrim long enough to lose any pre-existing accent with the exception of _maybe_ an Orc, but to have _blond_ hair as an Orc, a Dunmer, or a Redguard was ranged from rare to generally impossible. Even among Bosmer brawlers, Ulfric had never seen one with Arson’s bulk or height, which put the chances of the Dragonborn being either an incredibly tall Breton, a tall Nord or Imperial, or a short Altmer were the highest of all the races. One elven race and three races of men. And all the past Dragonborns had been Men as well, the most recent being Martin Septim himself, an Imperial.

                No, Ulfric doubted Arson was a Mer. Altmers were long and lean. Like Loriel. Arson was not of the lean sort.

                But it was hard to tell if that bulk was his or his armor.

                “You will win, I am sure of it,” Ulfric said, not willing to speak of what he had seen both out of respect for Arson as well as not wishing to alert his soldiers that anything that could have identified the Dragonborn had been noticed.

                The man huffed behind his mask and relaxed.

                “You forget I am still just a man.”

                “Akatosh chose you for a reason. If you do not have faith in yourself, have faith in him. He at least has faith in you.”

                It made Arson stop and his chest rose exaggeratedly in a few breaths before he shifted uncomfortably.

                “I wish he didn’t.”

                He didn’t want this fate. This responsibility.

                Ulfric didn’t blame him.

                And he sighed. “I once had this sort of discussion with the very Mer you had deliver your message. Loriel,” he stated, gazing out the open door of the shack out to the river. He wondered if his fondness had leeched into his voice, saying that name. “We spoke of the hiding of your identity, and he made me understand why. To protect the people who care about you. Who know you as you really are. You are a valuable commodity and too many less than honest people would try to wring any method to take advantage of you. The burden you bare is incomparable. But if you do not have faith that you can accomplish this task, at least have hope that you might be able to live as a free man when you succeed. To return to the people you love and live whatever quiet life it is you wish to live.”

                He thought back to the very bard who spoke those words.

                Loriel didn’t have the same luxury that Arson did.

                He would forever be hunted by the Thalmor until his last breath.

                And possibly even beyond that.

                Arson took a slow, deep breath.

                “He… sounds very thoughtful.”

                Ulfric smiled, something soft and small but fond.

                “I trust his advice more than my housecarl thinks I should.”

                “To be fair, your housecarl is an ass.”

                The reply dragged a laugh out of both of them and the seriousness of the air diminished.

                “Thank you, Ulfric. For your words. And your company. I think it was just what I was looking for before I have to go do… well, what I have to do.”

                “Talos protect you, Arson.”

                “May the Divines guide you always.”

                And Ulfric watched the Dragonborn as he made his way towards that great mountain, to face his destiny as Akatosh willed it.

                And he prayed that Arson would succeed.

                He had faith in Arson even if he did not.

                Akatosh chose him for a reason.


	12. Chapter Eleven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just FYI, this is also posted on my Fanfiction account too. Same name, same story. Enjoy. And don't forget to comment please.

                When Ulfric got back, he gave instructions to all guards to keep their eyes towards the Throat of the World. He wanted to know anything of dragon activity. It was sure to be a fight all of Tamriel would want to witness and Ulfric was certainly one.

                And for the next two days, there was nothing. Getting up to High Hrothgar from Kynesgrove took at least two days as Ulfric recalled, including taking time to rest, and if Arson wanted to be at the top of his game against that black bastard of a dragon, he would get some sleep at High Hrothgar as well.

                Ulfric didn’t take his eyes away from the skies either, and even took to the roof of the Palace of the Kings, something he hadn’t done since he had come back from the war and was suffering the thickest of his Legionnaire’s Disease. It was a place where he could be alone, where the thick of the cold would seep into him and he could safely scream and the world wouldn’t hear him. He couldn’t count the number of times his own father would find him up there, asleep in the snow, and gently rouse him to bring him inside. Sometimes, he didn’t even rouse him.

                His father understood that sometimes, he just needed to rest.

                And Ulfric would wake up with his father’s bearskin cloak wrapped about him.

                But now, now there were only two people in all of Windhelm who knew about that secret path behind the kitchens, up the narrow stairs that were almost too narrow for a sturdy-built Nord in armor, and the trapdoor that opened up to the skies and the winds.

                Even a Shout sounded… distant up there.

                It was a place where Ulfric always felt safe.

                And then, just after breakfast, Ulfric felt his chest go tight, and not long after, he heard the guards and turned his eyes towards the skies. Against the crisp morning air, a black shape flew towards the Throat of the World, and he ran straight for the kitchens, up that narrow staircase, and through the trapdoor to watch, Galmar even coming up after him.

                There was not much to be seen, not from that distance, but even in the light of day, they could both see fire blooming from the mountain’s peek.

                Two spouts of dragonfire in short bursts, rivaling one another, and then a third shortly after. Too soon to belong to either of the first two. Was there two dragons up there? With Arson?

                Or was it Arson and Paarthurnax against Alduin?

                The fight felt like it lasted for hours before light came no more.

                And then, with horror in his chest, he watched as that black shape drew away from the throat of the world and traveled over Eastmarch.

                Towards the mountains.

                Arson…

                Was he…

                Ulfric felt panic rising in his chest.

                He took a deep breath, trying to calm down, and he closed his eyes.

                _Su’um ahrk morah_.

                Breathe and focus.

                _Su’um ahrk morah_.

                Breathe and focus.

                He was shaking.

                Was Arson dead?

                He didn’t feel anything though.

                That moment before the Greybeards announced the Dragonborn to the world. That moment before Alduin flew across the sky to make his attack on Arson. Both of those moments he had felt something.

                Were the Greybeards tied to the events of the Dragonborn as he was? Or was it stronger for them?

                He let out a nervous breath, looking down at his hands to see his knuckles pulling his gloves taunt from his grip on the railing.

                He prayed that Arson survived.

                He prayed hard.

                He descended the stairs past the trapdoor and went to the Temple of Talos.

                And he prayed more.

                He beseeched Talos, even praying to Akatosh, that his fear was unnecessary. That Arson had survived. That the man who he admired for his bravery despite his fear had survived that attack.

                And he dreamed of dragonfire and the world being swallowed up in flames.

                Loriel was nowhere to replace those dreams.

                No sign of him anywhere.

                No rumors, no nothing.

                Just gone.

                It was starting to make him sick with worry until, some eight days later, Ulfric’s heart rose in his throat when he saw the door of the Palace of the Kings be shoved open so roughly that it almost knocked over the guard posted next to it.

                Ulfric was half pleased and half disappointed.

                It wasn’t Loriel.

                But it was another person he wanted to see.

                Arson stalked though the Main Hall of the Palace, alive and well, although it looked like a good portion of his armor had been replaced as a result of the fight.

                Ulfric stood as Arson approached the throne.

                “You’re alive,” he commented, although Arson didn’t stop and roughly dragged Ulfric into a startling hug.

                Half of the hall went silent in surprise, and Galmar’s face was bordering between being livid and resigned.

                And then Arson pulled back.

                “Sorry for that but I’m just really, _really_ glad to not be standing in front of someone who pisses me off enough to want to throw them off a mountain.”

                Ulfric blinked, still surprised, but he managed a small laugh.

                “I am glad you made it. I was worried.”

                The Dragonborn let out a soft sound and he gave Ulfric’s arm a squeeze.

                “I have something I need to ask of you.”

                He sounded worried but firm.

                “What is it?”

                Arson took a deep breath and dropped his hands.

                He was closer to Arson than he had ever been before and he could almost _feel_ the nervous energy coming off of him.

                “I need to trap a dragon, however Jarl Balgruuf cannot allow me to use Dragonsreach for this while Whiterun is still under attack. The Greybeards have agreed to be host to a peace council for a treaty that might put this war on hold long enough for me to go after that turn-tail dragon one last time on his own turf. I have already spoken to Tullius, he’s already agreed to attend. Please. I need you to be there,” Arson said, his voice tight and anxious.

                The emotions in his voice were making it easier to find notes of a slight accent in his voice, although from where Ulfric couldn’t identify.

                Ulfric’s expression relaxed to delicate surprise.

                Arson was pleading.

                Bordering on begging.

                Arson needed Ulfric’s help in this one small way. He trusted Ulfric with the safety of his contact for when the time came, but right now, he needed Ulfric.

                He took a breath.

                “How soon?”

                Behind Arson’s shoulder, Ulfric saw Galmar tense.

                “Five days from now. To give everyone time to speak with the rest of their council, decide what might be needed to agree to the treaty, before they get there. It will save us time arguing over the prices to pay,” he admitted.

                Five days.

                That wasn’t a long time.

                But it would have to be long enough.

                Every day Arson waited meant another day’s worth of strength Alduin regained.

                And Ulfric nodded.

                “I’ll be there.”

                There was a breath of relief.

                “Thank you.”

                Ulfric nodded and gave Arson’s arm a squeeze, feeling through the new, undecorated material the strength that rested in that man’s arm beneath his fingers. His muscles were tight and hard, possibly from anxiety, but they didn’t hold the same girth that most Nords held in their arms. Arson was bordering on the thin side as well as the tall side as a Nord. If he was a Breton then he would be simply abnormally tall. And if he was an Altmer, he would be considered short.

                “Have you had an opportunity to rest or eat?” he asked, suddenly feeling a touch concerned over the Dragonborn’s wellbeing.

                A small laugh.

                “I wish I could say yes but I don’t think an apple and some hard bread count as a meal for the two days I’ve been traveling from Solitude.”

                “Then stay and rest. Rebuild your strength. If you need to go to the Greybeards before the council meeting then at least stay the night in Windhelm,” Ulfric invited.

                And the man hesitated before giving a small nod.

                “I would appreciate it.”

                Ulfric gave a small smile and moved his hand to Arson’s shoulder, giving it a friendly squeeze before letting Arson sit down at the grand table and eat beneath his wrap, making idle conversation with Ulfric and entertaining his questions about Blackreach and about how Loriel fought at his side. He had never seen the bard handling a weapon aside from Helgen and it made him curious.

                He was evidently a good marksmen though.

                And that night, Ulfric dreamed of a city underground, lit by glowing water, mushrooms, and a high jeweled ceiling. And he dreamed of the tall Dragonborn, bone sword flashing through spindly pale creatures while fighting side by side with the taller bard, that elegant grey bow in his hands as he shot down enemies from afar. Protecting each other in the face of danger like a team.

                And when he woke to the first morning light, Arson was already gone.

                All he left behind was a note.

                **_The Mer spoke with love about Windhelm. I see why._**

                And Ulfric felt his heart glow with pride.

                Over the next few days though, Ulfric conferred with Galmar as to the treaty, what to demand, what possible demands would be made in return, and they both agreed that the Reach was the number one top priority to secure. If Markarth could be claimed without bloodshed, then that would fix many problems that Ulfric had. The incoming silver would be able to help pay the soldiers, help pay the farmers, the smithies, everyone who was doing so much for the fight.

                And as they reached High Hrothgar, Ulfric blinked in surprise as he saw Arngeir barring entrance to a woman and a man, the woman wearing strange black armor and the old man a simple tunic and pants.

                “You know why we’re here. Are you going to let us in or not?”

                He knew that voice.

                Delphine.

                They had fought in the war together, an only vaguely memorable woman during the time before Ulfric was captured and managed to escape. As for the old man, he wasn’t sure who he was.

                All Ulfric did know was that Arngeir was not happy with either of their presences at the sacred place of High Hrothgar.

                Arngeir looked angry, bordering on furious.

                “You were not invited here and you certainly are not welcome here.”

                Delphine scoffed, “We have as much right to be at this council as all of you. More, actually, since we were the ones that put the Dragonborn on this path.”

                Ah.

                The Blades…

                “We know what path you’ve set him on but he has made a different choice. Paarthurnax is still safe from your malice,” Arngeir sniped at her.

                “For now,” Delphine challenged, “The Blades’ memory is long, as you know.”

                It was at that point that the old man spoke up, wise and calm as he stated, “Delphine, we’re not here to rehearse old grudges. The matter at hand is urgent. Alduin must be stopped,” and he looked back to the other old man, “You wouldn’t have called this council if you didn’t at least agree to a point. We know a great deal about the situation and the threat that Alduin poses to us all. You need us here if you want this council to succeed.”

                The man’s words made Arngeir frown deeply, staring daggers at the two of them before he sighed. “Very well. You may enter.”

                And the two went inside, allowing Arngeir to come face to face with his old pupil.

                And although Galmar did not show the same respect to the man, Ulfric bowed, not a king or even a Jarl to this man, but a student who still respected his teacher.

                “ _Hi lost meyz mun gut nol dii miin, Ulfric_ ,” Arngeir greeted in Dovah-Zul.

                You have become a man far from my eyes, Ulfric.

                “ _Tiid lost ni haalvut hi, In_ ,” Ulfric said.

                Time has not changed you, Master.

                The old Greybeard’s eyes softened, “Oh but it has, dear boy. Come inside. We are still waiting on the other party.”

                And the Stormcloak side of the debate entered.

                Ulfric did not see Arson yet and when he asked, Arngeir admitted that he went up to the Throat of the World to meditate with Paarthurnax. The two were fond of each other, and both had a deep love for conversation. Delphine did not seem happy with this fact although her partner was fascinated by all that made up High Hrothgar, the other Greybeards watching them closely. Any signs of malice would immediately be asked to leave.

                And then, Ulfric heard the door to the courtyard open and Arson was almost blown in, covered in snow, the heavy blanket-shawl wrapped about his shoulders made of snowy sabercat fur and as he shook himself, the snow tumbled down.

                As for the rest of his attire, it seemed… unusually plain.

                It was not the same mismatched armor that Arson had come to Windhelm wearing.

                Still covering, still baggy in areas to hide his own body’s shape, with all aspects of him entirely covered, but it was undecorated. And it was not patchworked together.

                He looked up, not even wearing the same mask as before, but rather trading it for a hood and mask which covered his mouth and nose. The shadow of the hood was so heavy that all that could be seen from that man was his eyes, almost glowing out from the shadow.

                They shimmered and shined like the very dragon soul he had absorbed.

                Gold and flame.

                It was…

                Just one more hint.

                Any race could have golden eyes, but… he had never seen anything quite like those eyes.

                Those were one of a kind.

                The eyes of a golden eyed dragon itself.

                And Arson raised a gloved hand in greeting before he picked up a wrapped bundle from beside the door and made way for Delphine.

                Lightly, the Dragonborn rested a hand on her shoulder.

                “A word of advice, Delphine?”

                The woman lifted her eyes to the man.

                “Behave yourself.”

                His voice held a warning like the edge of a knife, and just like that, he lifted his hand and walked past her into the council room.

                Delphine didn’t need to be told a threat or a promise of what would happen if she didn’t. She seemed to already know and her expression tightened minutely. She did not fear pain, nor threat of death, but whatever Arson could do if she didn’t was capable of rattling her a bit.

                Galmar and Ulfric glanced to each other before stepping into the council room as well, followed by Delphine and her companion.

                It was only a few long minutes longer before they heard the sound of the great doors opening one more time and then talk. Ulfric could recognize Tullius and Rikke’s voices easily as they bounced against the walls.

                Ahead of them, Arngeir strode into the hall and stood at the far end of the table, opposite of the Dragonborn himself.

                And Ulfric felt fear rise in his chest at the sight.

                Those eyes trailed over him, haughty and snide as Elenwen casually stepped around the table, taking a seat besides the Greybeard and beside her was Jarl Balgruuf the Greater of Whiterun himself, his eyes shifting to her with unease. Next to him was Tullius, followed by Jarl Elisif the Fair of Solitude. And finally, Legate Rikke.

                And Arngeir took a deep breath, his eyes on Arson.

                Ulfric couldn’t breathe.

                And Arson’s own eyes had not moved from Elenwen from the moment she had stepped into the room.

                His hand on his tankard threatened to bend the metal…

                “So, you've done it. The men of violence are gathered here, in these halls whose very stones are dedicated to peace.

They may put their weapons down for a moment, but only to gather strength for the next bloodletting. They are not yet tired of war. Far from it. Do you know the ancient Nord word for war? "Season unending"... so it has proved. Now that everyone is here, please take your seats so we can begin. I hope that we have all come here in the spirit of-”

                “No,” Ulfric cut in and he glared accusingly at Tullius, “Do you aim to insult us by bringing her to this negotiation? Your chief Talos-hunter?”

                There was mutterings among Rikke, Galmar, and Balgruuf before that sly voice spoke clearly in the room, “I have every right to be at this negotiation. I need to ensure that nothing is agreed to here that violates the terms of the White-Gold Concordat.”

                Tullius huffed, “She is part of the Imperial delegation. You can’t dictate who I bring to this council.”

                “Enough!”

                Every head in the room turned to Arson as he slammed his hands down on the table.

                “The Thalmor have no place in a peace conference when the entirety of your faction of the Aldmeri Dominion has brought nothing but _slaughter_ across Tamriel, be it Blades or Breton or Redguard, Orcs or Nords or Imperials, Khajiit, Argonian, Dunmer, even your own Altmer who do not side with the _sick_ delusional _practice_ you uphold. You will leave and that will be the end of the matter!”

                And then the Dragonborn turned his eyes upon Tullius, the glow of his golden eyes burning with rage that Ulfric had never heard from the man before, “And _you_! You are beyond aware of what _she_ has done to the opposing party and bringing her here has been nothing more than a _scare tactic_ that I _will not tolerate_! Now! Either she leaves of her own will, you escort her out, or _I_ will escort her off the edge of a _cliff_. Have I made myself _clear_?”

                The last word was snarled, low and dangerous.

                And the entire room was deathly silent.

                For a moment, Elenwen almost looked offended but unbothered by the threats. And she drew in a slow, even breath before lifting her chin. “Very well.” And she turned her eyes to Ulfric who bristled under the woman’s gaze. “Ulfric, enjoy your petty victory. The Thalmor will treat with whatever government rules Skyrim. We would not think of interfering in your civil war.”

                Ulfric heard a growl from the direction of Arson that suspiciously sounded like ‘ _lo vith_!’.

                Lying snake.

                And as Elenwen left, her eyes trailed over Arson as she walked past him. The Dragonborn’s head never stopped following her until there was the sound of the door to High Hrothgar opening and then closing after her.

                Delphine and the old man looked both stunned and proud from the Dragonborn’s explosive rage that had been directed at Elenwen. And Tullius in part.

                Finally, after a long moment of drawing in slow, careful breaths, Ulfric sank into his seat and Arson collapsed into his, the eyes absent in the shadow. Closed until they both could breathe again.

                And when peace had settled, Arngeir cleared his throat.

                “Now that that’s… settled, I suppose, may we proceed?”

                Ulfric took a deep breath, and placed his first demand.

                “We want control of Markarth. That’s our price for agreeing to a truce,” he requested, keeping his voice level.

                Elisif pursed her lips, “So that’s why you’re here, Ulfric? You dare to insult the Greybeards by using this council to advance your own position?”

                “Jarl Elisif, I’ll handle this,” Tullius spoke up.

                She looked to him with a start, “General, this is outrageous! You can’t be taking this demand seriously! I thought we were here to discuss a truce!”

                “Elisif! I said I’d handle it!” the general snapped at the woman like she was a little girl and not the leader of the Hold that he was stationed at. Then, he turned his attention to Ulfric. “Ulfric, you can’t seriously expect us to give up Markarth at the negotiating table. You hope to gain in council what you’ve been unable to take in battle, is that it?”

                Arngeir breathed, “I’m sure Jarl Ulfric does not expect something for nothing…”

                Rikke muttered something under her breath.

                “Trade the Reach for the Rift. One major hold for one major hold,” Arson commented.

                “That’s outrageous,” Galmar snapped at Arson, his fist slamming into the table as he stood, making the frail Jarl of Solitude jump. “You want us to give up a strategic position of defense for-”

                “What does Riften have that Markarth doesn’t?” Arson cut him off. “Bees and honey? As opposed to raw silver and plentiful mines? You will be sacrificing a bit of security in position of your hold of Eastmarch, a small price to pay for the demand Ulfric first put on the table. Now shut up and sit down!” Arson snarled.

                “Stop!” The old man beside Delphine cried out, making both Arson and Galmar look at him. The entire table did as well. “Are you so blind as to our danger that you can’t see past your own petty disagreements? Here you sit arguing about… nothing! While the fate of the land hangs in the balance!”

                Arson’s fingers drummed on the table in irritation, those glowing eyes narrowing.

                Ulfric flicked his eyes to Delphine. “Is he with you, Delphine? If so, I advise you to tell him to watch his tongue.”

                She sighed and put an arm on the old man’s forearm. “He’s with me. And I advise all of you to listen to what he has to say before you do anything rash.”

                With that soft confirmation, she nodded to the man to keep going.

                “Don’t you understand the danger? Don’t you understand what the return of the dragons means? Alduin has returned! The World-Eater! Even now, he devours the souls of your fallen comrades and grows more powerful with every soldier slain in your pointless war! Can you not put aside your hatred for even one moment in the face of this mortal danger?”

                Arson rolled his head absently as though he had heard this lecture at least five or seven times before.

                “Is there anything else to be put on the table?”

                “The Karthwasten massacre. The Imperials demand compensation,” Rikke spat out. “You slaughtered the very people you claim to be fighting for there. True sons of Skyrim would never do such things.”

                Galmar would have stood up again if Ulfric hadn’t grabbed his arm. “Imperial lies! My men would never stoop to such methods, even in retaliation for your butchery at-”

                Ulfric cut him off. “We will pay. But not out of guilt. All blood spilled in this war is on your head, Tullius. I am doing this for the Dragonborn.”

                Arson let out a breath, his shoulders relaxing from their original high-strung position.

                He was almost appreciative.

                “Anything else?” Arngeir said quietly.

                And for the first time since Elenwen was made to leave, there was silence.

                The old Greybeard spoke out the terms as listed, the Reach for the Rift, and compensation for the massacre. To Galmar it probably felt like the Stormcloaks were giving up more than what they were getting but Ulfric thought that the peace of mind Arson had given him by ejecting Elenwen from the council had been a price as well.

                With Tullius and Ulfric agreeing upon the terms, everything written down by Arngeir’s neat hand, both leaders signed and then Arson rose, picking up the quill and he wrote beneath in his simple, thick, scratchy handwriting ,‘As witnessed by the Dragonborn Arson’.

                And once it was done, Ulfric caught Arson by the forearm.

                “Godspeed and may Talos protect you.”

                That was all he told the man before letting go of him, not wanting to keep him long, before Ulfric and Galmar began to make their way out of the council room.

                Arson disappeared out the doors to the courtyard to ascend to the peak of the Throat of the World, and Ulfric took a deep breath. Jarl Balgruuf and his guards would likely wait for Arson to return from the Throat and escort him back to Dragonsreach in order to secure the dragon. Tullius was having an in depth discussion with both Elisif and Rikke. Delphine and her old friend were speaking together, and Arngeir was lighting a wax stem to press the formal seal of the Greybeards to the bottom of the page of the truce, marking it as official.

                There was no more reason for Galmar and him to linger in High Hrothgar.

                It was time to go home and pray to Talos, to Akatosh perhaps, for Arson’s success.

                Perhaps it would be wise to invest in adding either a small shrine of the god who was the very reason Talos was as important as he was today or making a temple to the Dragon God of Time. After the war perhaps.

                And as the two of them stepped out into the cold, Ulfric breathed deeply the heavy snow-scented air of High Hrothgar and the mountain that was known as the Throat of the World.

                They unhitched their shivering mounts and saddled up before he heard one thing.

                “Ulfric.”

                The voice made his blood run cold and Galmar’s hand settled lightly on his weapon as they both gazed back.

                Elenwen smiled.

                Cold and full of humor, as though she was on the inside of a cruel joke.

                “I heard there is a certain fugitive in Windhelm.”

                He didn’t dare respond. Galmar himself held his silence as well. It was all Ulfric could do to draw breath and he closed his eyes, breathing deeply before he gave his horse a nudge and Galmar’s followed, starting down the 7000 steps.

                Yet she did not let him have this small peace of mind as she called after him, her voice carried on the wind.

                And the words chilled him deeper than any wind of the Throat of the World could.

                “Be sure to tell my son I say hello.”


	13. Chapter Twelve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just FYI, this is also posted on my Fanfiction account too. Same name, same story. Enjoy. And don't forget to comment please.

                She had to be lying but honestly, it made sense.

                It all made sense now.

                All of it.

                Laronen being Elenwen’s aid.

                Loriel settling himself in Windhelm.

                Loriel’s anxiety when he passed on the message from Arson.

                It all added up.

                And it made Ulfric feel sick to his stomach.

                He had been head over heels for the elf and he was Elenwen’s _son_.

                Her _son_!

                Of all the people, of all the _Mer_ he could have felt an attraction to, why did it have to be _him_?!

                _Why?!_

                If it was true, why had he been hiding it the whole time?

                His grip on his horse’s reigns was so tight that his gloves audibly creaked.

                Ulfric was almost at the edge of Eastmarch when he heard a voice and he stopped his horse, Galmar looking back with him. And he saw that familiar traveling cloak.

                That golden face.

                “Ulfric!” Loriel cried out, and Ulfric’s heart heaved in his chest.

                The elf had come to find him again.

                Had come to talk, to do whatever it was he wanted to do to deceive the Stormcloak leader and Jarl of Windhelm.

                He was panting as he came to a stop not far from Ulfric’s steed and he looked up, his expression pained from however long the Mer had tried catching up to them.

                “What do you want?” Galmar asked.

                “I need to talk to Ulfric-“

                The Jarl felt numb as the words slipped out of his mouth.

                “Your mother said to tell you hello.”

                At first, his expression only stilled.

                And then dwindled into muteness.

                And then faded into an expression of horror.

                That was all it took.

                It only took an expression to tell Ulfric that Elenwen hadn’t been lying.

                To expose the truth of the situation.

                And Ulfric hated himself.

                He had come to care so much for Loriel.

                And now it just hurt to look at him.

                “Don’t come back to Windhelm.”

                That was the last thing he said to Loriel before he nudged his horse and returned his focus on getting back home.

                Ignoring every face that he passed.

                Ignoring all words that were directed for his attention.

                He fell onto the bed fully clothed despite it being so early in the afternoon.

                But Ulfric couldn’t find it in himself to move until the next morning.

                Loriel was Elenwen’s son.

                And Ulfric had longed for him.


	14. Chapter Thirteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just FYI, this is also posted on my Fanfiction account too. Same name, same story. Enjoy. And don't forget to comment please.

                Everything about Ulfric moved in a fog after that.

                For the first four days after, he just went about the motions of his daily living but found no joy or vigor or anger in him. He could not taste the very food he put into his mouth although his appetite was non-existent and when he slept, he could only dream of Loriel’s final expression. As he had turned away, he saw it change.

                Into one of hurt.

                As though it had been Ulfric himself who had taken a weapon and wounded him with it.

                As though the real betrayal had been done by Ulfric.

                And so Ulfric did his best to avoid sleep as well.

                Whatever opinions Galmar had on the matter were kept silent and for that, Ulfric was grateful. He didn’t want to consciously think about the Altmer more than he already did.

                None in Windhelm but himself and Galmar were aware of Loriel’s parentage and Ulfric kept it that way. Anything about the bard was kept under hush, and no one knew that the Jarl had, in all technicality, banned the Altmer from the city as well.

                And with the quiet of all this, all conscious speak of the Mer was casually null in his ears.

                Loriel had been gone long enough that people didn’t talk so actively about him.

                If anything, most conversations were in passing.

                Wondering when he would be back.

                Wondering what tales of adventure he would bring back.

                Wondering when Loriel would get into another entertaining fist fight with Rolff.

                Wondering…

                And Ulfric wondered too.

                He wondered why he didn’t see the truth that stood right in front of him.

                Loriel.

                The son had the same hue of skin as his mother.

                The same hue of hair.

                The same long nose.

                The same subtle forehead.

                The same… curl of lips when he cruelly smirked.

                It had all been right in front of him.

                And he hadn’t seen it at all.

                And then… On the fifth day after the peace conference, from all corners of Skyrim, dragons took to the skies, slowly spiraling like a cyclone inward towards the eye of the storm.

                Towards the peek of the Throat of the World.

                And for an hour, there was nothing. All the dragons had found places to rest there on that mountain.

                The whole world waited and watched on baited breath before, all at once, all those dragons that Arson had failed to kill took off from the mountain, circling the air currents with roars that echoed all across the land. There was no announcement but Ulfric could feel it.

                Just the same as the Greybeards undoubtedly had.

                The World-Eater Alduin had been defeated.

                The world would continue to live.

                And Ulfric breathed deeply.

                Grateful for the distraction away from his own heartbreak and betrayal.

                But then…

                Two nights later, like autumn’s first frost coming without warning, there was a light that peaked out from the top of the Throat of the World.

                Visible from all corners of Skyrim.

                And Ulfric knew…

                He knew by the laws of the Greybeards that the only individuals that were to have a funeral pyre at the Throat of the World were the Greybeards.

                Or the Dragonborn himself.

                It made fear rise in his chest, and without telling anyone, Ulfric bolted from the city and ran his horse to exhaustion all the way to Ivarstead before the poor beast would go no further at his urgings and he practically ran all the way up the 7000 steps.

                All the way to High Hrothgar.

                He was exhausted as he pounded on the door of the temple, anxiety keeping him conscious, and he beat on the heavy material again.

                Arngeir looked just as exhausted as Ulfric felt, and the Jarl spared no time.

                “Arson-”

                That was all he could get out before his throat went tight with fear.

                Arngeir’s expression only told of sadness and he ushered him inside quietly.

                Away from the restful quarters of the other Greybeards, the master Greybeard brought Ulfric to the council room where he had sat not six days before. And the old man breathed deeply.

                “The Dragonborn was victorious. Alduin is no more.”

                “And Arson?”

                The man looked at him with patient eyes and they dropped.

                “His wounds were too great. He survived Sovngarde long enough to come back and see the skies of Nirn one more time.”

                Arson…

                He had fallen just as he feared that he would.

                He won the war, but at the same time, he lost the battle as well.

                Ulfric had to sit down.

                He couldn’t breathe.

                Bitterly, Ulfric rested his face in his hands.

                First Loriel and his betrayal…

                And now Arson was gone as well.

                A sharp tremble wracked through his shoulders and he felt hot, silent tears against his hands.

                He had lost two people he cared about in a single week.

                And in the quiet of High Hrothgar, Ulfric mourned his losses.


	15. Chapter Fourteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just FYI, this is also posted on my Fanfiction account too. Same name, same story. Enjoy. And don't forget to comment please.

                In the aftermath of the Dragonborn’s death, the world had suddenly gone very still and very quiet.

                Not just for Ulfric but for much of Skyrim as people visited local Halls of the Dead to light candles for the Dragonborn. For many, that was all they could afford to do. For some, tokens of appreciation had been sent up to High Hrothgar in the man’s honor. Ulfric had never realized just how many people whose lives had been touched by Arson until after he was gone. Some people told stories of how the Dragonborn had never seemed too busy to try to help in some way, doing great many little things. Even simply speaking to the people as he had, telling stories of adventures and hope and offering advice where he could.

                And every hold had at least one story of the Dragonborn, not as the slayer of dragons, but as a man.

                In Whiterun hold, he had brought hope back to the Temple of Kynareth by bringing a sapling of the Eldergleam, even taking part in removing the dead tree so that the sapling could grow into something worth memory.

                In Hjaalmarch, he eradicated a local nest of ambitious vampires who seemed determined to enslave the nearby city of Morthal and put to rest the spirits of those who had been killed by them.

                In the Reach, he cleared out Nchuand-Zel of its infestation of not only a giant problematic spider but also made the ruins safe for the further expedition efforts of the area to continue.

                In the Rift, he took care of a Skooma operation that was poisoning the reputation of the city beyond that of the presence of the Thieves’ Guild, and rumor went so far as to state that it had been Arson himself who had taken down the Thalmor down in the Ratway.

                In Winterhold, he recovered the Helm of Winterhold to help the Jarl in what Ulfric would personally call a need to feel more important.

                In the Pale, he helped rebuild the Hall of the Vigilence that had been in ruins for years since the vampire attack that had burned it to the ground, allowing for the still existing Vigilence of Stendaar a place to collect themselves from their travels.

                In Falkreath hold, he had rescued a party of bear hunters not only from the very bears they had been hunting but from the spriggans that had been in turn protecting the bears.

                In Haafingar, he had put an end to a disturbance out near Dragon’s Bridge followed by a problem in the catacombs of the Temple of the Divines.

                And in Eastmarch, Arson had put an end to the Bloodhorker pirates that had been attacking ships coming in and out of Windhelm, specifically ones of the East Empire Trading Company.

                But above all, else, the greatest little thing Arson had done, in Ulfric’s point of view, was love Skyrim.

                And he was gone.

                Ulfric felt lost.

                In the aftermath of what had happened with Loriel, of Elenwen making it known that he was her son, Ulfric had wanted to talk to Arson about it. About his anxieties and fears over it. About how angry and terrified he had been. And… as the weeks crawled by since his death, about how he came to realize that maybe Elenwen had told him that truth for a very specific reason.

                Her presence had been a scare-tactic at the meeting, one that Arson ultimately ensured the failure of, but her words had been the final push needed to make him make a mistake.

                To make him lash out in defense at a man who he didn’t need to defend himself from.

                To make him lash out at a man who didn’t deserve it.

                Loriel had done nothing to betray Ulfric’s trust, he never asked questions that were too personal or trotted into territory that other civilians of Windhelm wouldn’t have also trodden. Mostly conversations between himself and Loriel had been about what _Loriel_ had seen, what _he_ had experienced. Like Loriel wanted just _one_ person to know the truth about himself.

                So what if everything had been true?

                So what if Loriel was Elenwen’s son?

                If everything else had been as true as that fact, he was also a fugitive of the Summerset Isles, an arsonist of the Thalmor Hall of Records, an escape artist from the custody of the Valenwood Thalmor, a Mer at large all across Morrowind, a traveler greeted by the Bear of Eastmarch, in debt to the Vigilantes of Stendaar, a Solstheim apothecary’s apprentice, a member of the dawnguard, and a professional bard living a quiet life at the College until…

                Until Ulfric.

                If Ulfric hadn’t… then Loriel would probably still be comfortably safe living his quiet life as he sang out his heart every day for as long as he wanted to sing his heart out.

                Maybe being happy.

                But if Ulfric hadn’t…

                Then they would have never met.

                If Ulfric hadn’t, Loriel wouldn’t have made his nightmares turn peaceful.

                If Ulfric hadn’t, Loriel wouldn’t have taken away those nightmares almost entirely.

                If Ulfric hadn’t, Loriel wouldn’t have settled himself into Ulfric’s mind and later his heart.

                If Ulfric hadn’t, Loriel wouldn’t have made Ulfric happy knowing there was just someone to talk to without barriers.

                If Ulfric hadn’t gone to Solitude to challenge Torygg for the right to be High King, Ulfric wouldn’t have fallen in love.

                With the rebellious bard son of his own torturer none the less.

                If everything had been true, then all Ulfric had done in the wake of Elenwen’s reveal was take away the one place in all of Skyrim where Loriel might have a true chance to be safe.

                But he hadn’t given Loriel a chance to explain. He had just told him to not come back. It took three weeks for Ulfric to realize his mistake. Three weeks was a long time for something to happen.

                All Ulfric could do was keep his ear to the ground for rumors of sightings, pass on to the guards to keep an eye out for the bard, and send out a courier with a simple message, the impression of the Jarl of Windhelm’s personal seal seared into the parchment below.

                Two words for Loriel alone.

                **_Come back._**

                But that had been two weeks ago.

                Two weeks, no response.

                Nothing.

                Nothing.

                No response.

                Nothing.

                Just silence.

                And Ulfric prayed.

                He prayed for Loriel’s safety.

                And he prayed that Loriel might forgive him.

                But Ulfric had little faith that it would happen.

                He remembered the expression on the bard’s face as he turned away, hurt because Ulfric might have actually wounded him by the rejection. He remembered the last words that Mer had said in front of him.

                _I need to talk to Ulfric-_

                What was it that he wanted to talk to him about?

                Was that the last time he would ever hear his name on that Mer’s tongue?

                He remembered the last smile he had seen, when Loriel had stopped on the bridge of Windhelm and looked back to him.

                He remembered the way Loriel sat on the floor behind Ulfric’s headboard after Isran had come and the two of them had talked like two friends instead of an old man and a younger one who was actually twice the other’s age.

                He remembered how Loriel had looked with his cat on his shoulder as he laced up his boots.

                He remembered how anxious Loriel had looked back at the fort with blood dripping down Ulfric’s face.

                And he wondered…

                What if the very thing Loriel had wanted to tell him after giving him Arson’s message was not just that she was assigned to his case, but to tell him who Elenwen was to him? He had been bordering on terrified, scared to death over the knowledge that his own mother had been Ulfric’s torturer.

                If he had told him that then, Ulfric liked to think he wouldn’t have been angry, that he would have been understanding.

                That if he had told him then, that Ulfric would have reached out to ensure Loriel’s protection.

                But he couldn’t do that now.

                He couldn’t go back and fix that mistake.

                And there was doubt in his heart that he would have that chance ever again.

                If Arson had still been alive, Ulfric would have begged Arson to track Loriel down, to bring him back to Windhelm.

                To bring him _home_ where he _belonged_.

                Where Ulfric could _protect_ him.

                Where Ulfric would sit with Loriel on the floor behind his own headboard and just talk over bottles of mead.

                Where Ulfric would see the Mer smiling at the people he cared about over bottles of Sujama and Mead.

                Where Ulfric would listen to Loriel as he entertained down by the docks, as his voice carried through the Snow Quarter, as he _sang_ in Candlehearth Hall.

                Where wherever Loriel was in the city, Ulfric would know he could be found.

                He no longer dreamed of ravaging Loriel for his body, of drawing out eager sounds in pleasure, of stealing needy kisses that were long in the wanting. No, when his dreams were not nightmares, when he dreamed of Loriel instead of seeing visions of what might have happened to him, his dreams were of that elf in Windhelm, just being where Ulfric could see him and thank the Divines that he was home.

                Even if they never spoke again, as long as Loriel was never too far away, Ulfric could live with that.

                He could love Loriel from a distance.

                He would be alright with that.

                While Galmar personally didn’t care for Ulfric’s change of mind when it came to the bard, watching him send out that courier followed by the orders that the elf could come back to the city and if he was to show up while Ulfric was away that Galmar was to have him wait until the Jarl returned so they could speak, then Galmar would do so. It was his Jarl’s orders, and it was Galmar’s duty to not only keep him safe but follow his Jarl’s orders.

                If Loriel’s presence gave Ulfric enough peace of mind to crawl out of his state of mourning then the housecarl had no reason to complain. Too much anyway.

                And the Divines only knew Ulfric needed that peace of mind to continue with his duties as Jarl and leader of the rebellion.

                Two weeks after sending the courier, a month after the end of the world was halted, Ulfric finally joined his men on a patrol to take care of some bandits out at Mistwatch, a distraction while Ulfric waited for the elf, for either him to come home to Windhelm or for some form of gossip to reach the Jarl’s ears.

                With the discovery of the prisoners that were in the fort though, kidnappings ranging from children to adults being held in an effort to extract ransom from their families, Ulfric told his men to let loose. Free the prisoners and kill every last bandit.

                Ulfric was going to handle the ringleader himself.

                Trekking through the fortress and taking down every bandit that he crossed, Ulfric was surprised to discover that the mastermind behind all of the kidnappings was a woman but that was only a reminder to the Jarl that women were just as capable as men of doing great or evil things, strong and wicked and she was far stronger than her petty lackeys when it came to fighting.

                But she wasn’t a grizzly seasoned war veteran like Ulfric was.

                She did manage to get in one or two cheap shots in the clash of weapons before the Jarl of Windhelm sank his axe deep into her shoulder and whirled to drive the wretched-free blade into the other side of her body before she collapsed, bleeding out and gasping for breath.

                Ulfric frowned, and after kicking her weapons away from her hands, he knelt by her side, making her eyes look up to him.

                “Did the Thalmor hire you to capture anyone?”

                It was a simple question but one he needed to know.

                Hesitantly, she nodded.

                So the Thalmor had been using these bastards to pluck up Altmer men off the roads…

                “How many did you kidnap?”

                She was starting to get clammy, her breath quickening and she gasped out, “six.”

                They had caught six Altmers in Eastmarch, that matched up with the last count he had received.

                “Who were they looking for?”

                “Fourth em… issary’s… twin.”

                She expired with one last question left on Ulfric’s lips.

                Cursing, he closed the bandit’s eyes and searched the pockets of her armor to see if she had anything from the Thalmor, anything to expose any more specifics: who they were looking for, why they were looking for him, if he had been caught.

                Had Loriel been caught?

                Was Loriel among the six Altmer captured in Eastmarch?

                Or had he managed to evade capture as he always had in the past.

                She said they were looking for the fourth emissary’s twin. So Loriel’s brother, the aid, Laronen, he seemed to have gotten a promotion under his mother. A rank that meant that he answered to only three people in Skyrim and ultimately his own mother as well. She was keeping an eye on him. With Loriel and Laronen being as close to identical as they were, it also gave Elenwen a visual reference on how Loriel might have aged, what he might look like in the years they hadn’t seen each other. 50 years was a long time for aging to kick in, and Divines only knew how picky the Altmer were about avoiding scarring where it would show. He could count on one hand how many Altmer he had seen with scars on their face.

                Loriel having the lightning scar going up his neck was a different matter entirely.

                When he came up empty handed, Ulfric returned to the courtyard of the fort, observing the soldiers who were tending to the injuries of the prisoners and giving them some food to help them recover. And of all the prisoners, only three were Altmer men. At least he could hope to ask them, find out what they knew. At least with them he didn’t have to ask them while they were dying unlike that woman…

                And they had no reason to lie either.

                “Ralof,” Ulfric called out, catching the man’s attention as he finished bandaging the wrist of one of the children. The man nodded and gave a smile to the child before going over to his lord.

                “Yes sir?”

                “Will you bring the three Altmer men over? I have some questions for them.”

                “Yes sir,” Ralof agreed, going back over to the group of prisoners and having the three men follow.

                All of them had the same hair color but that was all they had in common. Their eyes were amber as well but they were shades too yellow to match Loriel’s. One of them had flecks of green in one eye as well, which was unusual. But… They weren’t Loriel.

                The three Mer looked at each other in nervousness as they were brought in front of the Jarl of Windhelm. “You have no need to be worried, I only wish to ask you a few questions and then you can be on your way to wherever it is you need to go,” he told them calmly.

                One drew in a nervous breath.

                And then one of them nodded.

                The Jarl gave a small bow of his head in thanks. “Reports off the road had said that six of your kind, adult male Altmer, had gone missing from the roads over the last two months. I am only seeing three.”

                “Their families were local, they left after their ransoms were paid off.”

                Ulfric nodded to himself. That was good, it meant that Loriel hadn’t been captured by these bandits then.

                “Do you know why they were going after your kind?”

                The three Mer looked at each other and then back to Ulfric.

                “The Thalmor were paying them to try to pick up one specific guy,” one of them said.

                “Yeah, I think it was a bard.”

                “The Thalmor were pretty insistent on trying to get their hands on him but…” and he shrugged and shook his head.

                “The bandits never caught the guy. Every time one of the Thalmor came up to see who they caught, that leader got threatened in a not pretty way.”

                That was all he needed to know.

                “Thank you. That was all I needed to ask. My men and I are returning to Windhelm, you are welcome to come with us to rest and recover for a while,” the Jarl offered, making the three seem relieved and grateful. They agreed readily.

                And for the rest of the day, the troop made their way back to Windhelm, many of the prisoners being given the horses of the soldiers so that the wounded and young could ride. The children would have their families written to by courier and asked to come get them from Windhelm. It would be the safest way to ensure that everyone went back to who they belonged with.

                Galmar was glad to see Ulfric’s mission to the fort was such a great success when he saw the expanded size of the company. It was quite a success indeed. It would put the faith of the people more with Ulfric as a good leader, calloused and not always easy to deal with, but a good leader none the less.

                “And what of your elf?” Galmar finally asked his Jarl halfway through his meal.

                He felt almost startled by the question.

                By the way Galmar phrased it as well.

                _Your elf_.

                Ulfric supposed that Loriel was _his_ elf.

                He felt his face grow hot at the thought, turning over the piece of cutlery in his fingers.

                “He wasn’t there. Never was, apparently.”

                Which was good.

                Galmar only nodded, a slow breath being let out and the housecarl’s expression telling Ulfric that he still wasn’t keen on thoughts about the Altmer, but he could deal with it.

                It gave Ulfric some relief that Galmar actually understood that he might actually _need_ the Altmer’s presence after growing so fond of him.

                And the rest of Ulfric’s night grew quiet after he finished his meal, bathed, and climbed into his bed.

                He sighed deeply as he went over the main thoughts of the day.

                Those who had been kidnapped would be returned to their families, and the people would know the task Ulfric took part in, but the part that called Ulfric’s attention the loudest was the thought that Loriel hadn’t been found by the Mistwatch Bandits.

                It still drew the question as to where _his_ bard was.

                That question felt heavy on his mind as he fell asleep and dreamed.

                He dreamed of Arson. Of the man alive and well, wearing the armor he first saw him wearing in all its lustrous work of ugly art, calm and strong and wise. The lenses of his mask were missing, allowing those gleaming fiery gold eyes to peer out and sink into Ulfric’s soul.

                He stood at the end of the great table, leaning against it, the straps that kept the sheath for his dragonbone sword loose and allowing the end of the sword to rest on the floor from his body’s position.

                Ulfric stood from his throne.

                “Arson, I need a favor of you,” Ulfric found himself asking.

                The Dragonborn tilted his head. “What is it?”

                “I need you to find someone. The Mer. The one you gave the dossier to. The one you went through Blackreach with. I need you to find him. Please.”

                Arson’s golden eyes closed behind the mask and he shifted his shoulders.

                “Why do you need me to find him?”

                “Because I need him now more than ever. I wouldn’t ask you if I wasn’t absolutely certain you were the only person who could help.”

                Arson looked down, and then away, looking back over his right shoulder. There was sounds coming up from the kitchen, the cook already starting on a meal.

                “I heard you told him not to come back. Because of who his mother is.”

                “I made a mistake.”

                “That’s one hell of a mistake, Ulfric.”

                “One that I’ll spend the rest of my life regretting it.”

                The Dragonborn sighed and stood straight.

                Ulfric was jarred awake before he could receive Arson’s answer, Galmar’s hand on his shoulder.

                “Galmar, wha-”

                “Get up, it’s urgent.”

                The tone in his housecarl’s voice was one rarely used. It definitely was urgent, and the Jarl dressed in a hurry, wondering if he needed his armor but Galmar shook his head, handing Ulfric his cloak and leading him down to the main hall.

                “What’s going on?” Ulfric asked as they cut across the hall and into the kitchen.

                “It’d be better if you saw for yourself.”

                Galmar was rarely this cryptic but with the way he said it, it meant that the housecarl knew he would fumble his words as he unlocked the secret passage to the roof and the two of them ascended the steep stairs, Galmar tucking his shoulders and turning slightly so he wouldn’t scrape the wall.

                Finally, he pushed open the trapdoor and climbed out, the wind whistling sharply.

                It wasn’t even dawn yet.

                And as Ulfric stepped out, he saw a heavily cloaked shadow by the railing.

                Ulfric’s heart rose in his throat.

                “Loriel?”

                The figure took notice and turned.

                And the Jarl of Windhelm stared in shock.

                “It’s been a long time, Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak.”


	16. Chapter Fifteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just FYI, this is also posted on my Fanfiction account too. Same name, same story. Enjoy. And don't forget to comment please.

                In almost every way, Laronen looked just like his brother: his hair the same shade of harvest wheat gold, amber eyes having the same slight downward tilt at the far corners, the same thinness to his lips, the same bone structure. The Thalmor Fourth Emissary was thinner though, his face slightly longer, his cheeks more hollowed, his eyes more exhausted. He had frown lines that Loriel never would have and he looked like it had been a very long time since he had last smiled.

                For a long time, the two of them just looked at each other. Took in the sight of each other for the first time in thirty years.

                Thirty years on Ulfric was worn differently on Laronen, as if it had only been a small handful instead, but time had settled on Laronen in a different way entirely.

                He looked sad.

                It made him look older than Loriel.

                Ulfric felt his face go numb as memories of this man, who was so startlingly alike his brother but so incredibly different at the same time, clawed their way to the forefront of his mind. How he flinched with every scream Elenwen extracted, how every time he had come to heal Ulfric he would never let his eyes meet the man’s, how he couldn’t bring himself to touch the man as he healed his wounds. How his mother would sneer over Laronen’s shoulder as he healed Ulfric.

                He felt it all come back with such clarity.

                He couldn’t breathe.

                “What…” was all Ulfric could gasp out.

                The Thalmor lifted his hand slowly from beneath the cloak that hid Thalmor robes, a thick package in hand and offered it to Galmar wordlessly. The housecarl opened it and gazed over the contents before his eyes widened in surprise and he handed it to Ulfric, his jaw going slack.

                What could have possibly surprised the man?

                Well, Ulfric got to find out quite quickly.

                The package was a thick book, the pages spread thick with loose pages folded and shoved in between, and at the very front was a map of a fortress drawn in ink, charcoal markings and notes in small, tight handwriting detailing the patrol movements of people as well as who occupied which cells, but his eyes rose to take in the Mer in front of him as soon as one thing jumped out at him of all the details.

                One name.

                _Loriel_.

                Loriel had been captured.

                The Thalmor had Loriel.

                They had _him_.

                There were other names too: Thorald, Yvara, Tibius, Fenrald, but only Loriel’s really mattered to Ulfric.

                They gazed at each other in silence, Ulfric feeling his gut churning as though he had been drinking.

                “Consider it a trade. All of that for my brother’s safety,” Laronen said softly, those simple words giving Ulfric the knowledge of the biggest difference between the two brothers from the way the Thalmor had a smoker’s throat rather than the almost gently fluid voice of the bard.

                His heart jumped in his throat.

                _What?_

                And Ulfric gazed down at the book, flipping it open.

                And the sheer _amount_ of information Laronen had just turned over settled into the Jarl of Windhelm.

                Details ranging from Thalmor activity in Skyrim, how often Thalmor prisoner escorts passed through certain areas, investigations of Talos shrines, the names of prisoners and how many had been tortured to death, how many were still alive, the dates of merchandise shipments up to the Thalmor embassy, it even included details about things Elenwen was holding over Tullius’s head to get his compliance!

                And those were just the details on Skyrim alone!

                Activities in Cyrodiil, Morrowind, Black Marsh, Elswyer, Valenwood, the Summerset Isles, even activity in High Rock and Hammerfell!

                All of it was in the same small, tight handwriting that belonged to the bard’s brother.

                All that Laronen had given him…

                Did he really believe turning traitor to the Thalmor was really worth his brother’s life?

                “Why?” Ulfric asked.

                And Laronen looked at him with those sad, patient eyes.

                “Because I’ve spent 50 years regretting not running away with him to get away from her,” he said very softly.

                Ulfric breathed in, slow and deep, the cold of the early morning air burning his lungs almost.

                “If she finds out-”

                “If Loriel survives, I can die knowing I did at least one good thing in my entire life,” Laronen interrupted.

                His heart was beating fast in his chest.

                And the Thalmor… no, the Thalmor betrayer, he nodded to the documents in Ulfric’s hands. “Your best opening will be in four days. Elenwen will be at Castle Dour, holding council with Tullius,” he told them.

                That didn’t give them much time.

                Laronen gazed behind the Jarl and frowned. “I need to go before my absence is noticed.”

                Galmar frowned and took the Thalmor by the upper arm to lead him through the trap door but Ulfric stopped them with a hand on the Thalmor’s other arm.

                “How long…”

                How long had Loriel been there?

                Laronen stared ahead, not looking at the Jarl, and he sucked in a nervous breath between his teeth.

                “Three weeks.”

                Five weeks ago, Ulfric had found out that Loriel was Elenwen’s son, a fact that Loriel had about as much control over as Arson had over being the Dragonborn.

                Five weeks ago, he had told Loriel not to come back to Windhelm, an act out of fear and anger and stupidity in thinking that Loriel might have been gaining his trust only to betray him.

                Four weeks ago, Arson had died as the result of his battle with Alduin.

                Three weeks ago, Loriel had been captured.

                And two weeks ago, Ulfric realized his mistake without knowing that it was already too late.

                _Too late_.

                Those were the key words.

                If he had given Loriel a _chance_ to explain, instead of reacting so quickly out of fear, then _his_ bard would have never been caught.

                He might have been _safe_.

                In Windhelm where Ulfric could _see_ him.

                _This is all my fault_ , Ulfric thought.

                So much that came with Loriel was his fault.

                But now Loriel was suffering and it was all because of _him_.

                He let his hand fall from Laronen’s arm and the Mer closed his eyes, allowing Galmar to lead him to the trapdoor.

                “Ulfric.”

                The Jarl looked back to him.

                “This thing all things devours: birds, beasts, trees, flowers.”

                He turned to descend the stairs after Galmar, his eyes meeting the Jarl’s.

                “Gnaws iron, bites steel, grinds hard stones into meal, slays kings, ruins towns-”

                “And beats high mountains down,” Ulfric finished.

                This…

                This face…

                This very man…

                This very man who aided in his suffering under Elenwen’s hands…

                This very man who was her son…

                This very man who was Loriel’s brother…

                This was the Dragonborn’s inside contact.

                Laronen gazed down. “It will work in your favor to keep it silent as long as possible,” he said before he disappeared down the trapdoor, leaving Ulfric standing there on the roof of the Palace of the Kings, the leaked Thalmor documents in his hands, his breath fogging before his eyes, and all Ulfric could think of was that Arson must have spent a long time planning the demise of the Thalmor.

                He had given Ulfric an aid in his absence, secured a means for Ulfric not only to potentially win the war, and not only that but leave a jagged wound in the Thalmor’s side.

                In _Elenwen_ ’s side.

                And he gazed down at the book.

                Four days.

                That was how long he had to get an extraction team of soldiers up to Northwatch Keep, to rescue Loriel, to rescue all the prisoners there, and leave the Thalmor with a black eye they’d remember.

                He needed Loriel back.

                And he’d have it that way.

                It was slowly turning into dawn as Ulfric descended the trapdoor’s stairs and locked the secret path behind him before going down into the barracks and rousing Ralof from his sleep.

                “Quietly,” Ulfric murmured as the man tiredly looked over his shoulder and nodded.

                He gave Ralof enough time to shove his feet into his boots and pull on a shirt before following after him to the spare room in the North wing.

                “I need you to take a team up to Haafingar. The target is the Thalmor prison, Northwatch Keep. Rescue all prisoners and those that need safety from the Thalmor will have it in Windhelm. In four days, Elenwen will leave the Thalmor Embassy to the south-west of the Keep to go to Solitude, stage the attack as soon as she is far enough away,” Ulfric ordered, handing Ralof the map of the Keep that contained all the little details on it.

                He could see the man’s mind churning, thinking, questioning as he looked down at the map.

                Why all of this all of a sudden?

                How did he come across all this information?

                But Ralof didn’t question.

                Four days.

                They could make it all the way up there in two and have an extra day to scope out the location and plan the assault before they needed to do anything.

                They would have to make their own escape from there.

                “Is there anything else, my Jarl?” Ralof asked.

                And Ulfric thought.

                He thought deeply.

                He thought to Laronen’s last words to him. To keep Laronen’s identity as a traitor secret.

                But also to keep him safe as well.

                “You recall Helgen? Inside the Keep?” he suggested.

                “Yes sir.”

                “And the details Loriel told?”

                The man thought for a moment before nodding.

                “His brother is the Fourth Emissary to the Thalmor. If you stumble across him, I want him captured and otherwise unharmed.”

                To make that traitor to the Thalmor look like a prisoner of the Stormcloaks would work in Laronen’s favor, and Ulfric’s, against Elenwen.

                And Ralof nodded.

                “I’ll assemble a team right away, sir.”

                “Good man.”

                And the soldier he trusted with Loriel hurried back to the barracks to dress and pick out his crew to attack.

                In four days, Loriel would be safe, and potentially Laronen as well.

                And in six, _his_ bard would be home.

                Ulfric left for the temple of Talos, and he prayed.


	17. Chapter Sixteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just FYI, this is also posted on my Fanfiction account too. Same name, same story. Enjoy. And don't forget to comment please.

                Ulfric was dog tired from Galmar waking him so early by the time he watched Ralof and his hand-picked men ride out, their armor hidden in travel packs, all dressed like farmers and merchants and smithies, their chainmail worn beneath their clothes as the hooves of their steeds made the ground shake as they tore off.

                The Jarl of Windhelm had the utmost faith in these men, and he had the utmost faith in Ralof to be able to pull off what he was about to do.

                And with his utmost faith also came incomprehensible exhaustion as Ulfric crept up the staircases and fell back into his bed, barely able to pull the furs over himself and ignoring the blankets before his heavy eyes closed and he breathed deeply.

                He could count on both hands how many times since his father’s death and he became Jarl that he had slept in late or went back to bed during the day. Three of those times had been due to his Legionaire’s disease deciding to act up and leave him undeniably lethargic. Another four of those times had been due to illness or injury. And two of those times, including today, was because he was just plain _tired_.

                But Ulfric didn’t fall asleep immediately.

                He breathed and tried to remember what Loriel’s body felt like beneath his hand. Had he ever touched Loriel’s bare skin? Once. When he brushed his knuckles against Loriel’s hand as he held the gifted bow.

                But only that once.

                He remembered every time he had genuinely touched Loriel.

                It was always his arms, always with sleeves in between his skin and Ulfric’s. And the one exception when their bodies were side by side as the Jarl of Windhelm escorted a very intoxicated Mer back to his room, muscles like a well-strung bow beneath his hand on Loriel’s waist.

                But that was all Ulfric knew about him.

                And it had been too long since the last time…

                He couldn’t remember the sensation of those muscles under his hands, he only remembered what they were like.

                And it annoyed him that he couldn’t remember the feel.

                He should have savored those moments more.

                Ulfric breathed deeply and tried to remember how the Altmer had felt in his dreams, bodies pressed together, mouth against mouth, hands on wrists and hips and in hair, he tried to remember.

                But he couldn’t.

                Sadly, he opened his eyes and rolled onto his back, gazing out to the shelf that contained his trinket case.

                The glass case that held that Altmer wedding- no, it was an engagement band.

                And he thought about Loriel’s hands.

                He had always imagined his hands on Loriel but never had he imagined those hands on him.

                Slowly, he breathed deeply.

                _Su’um ahrk morah._

                Breathe and focus.

                He didn’t think the Greybeards meant on this though as the image of those golden hands teased themselves to life in his head.

                He remembered the way they held the quill, elegant and light.

                The way they caressed the cat, playful and affectionate.

                The way they clenched right before he threw a punch, tight and white-knuckled.

                The way they plucked the lute, clever and dexterious.

                The way they clutched the cold stones for support, loose and curling.

                The way they pressed against his own raw unhealed wound, splayed and uncertain.

                The way they wrapped around that handsome grey bow, delicate and admiring.

                The way their knuckles touched, nothing more than a nudge.

                His knuckles felt smooth against his, the skin soft and warm.

                He remembered that touch with such astonishing clarity.

                And he latched onto the thought.

                Ulfric closed his eyes and relived the memory of their knuckles brushing, this time with the bow absent.

                Loriel would look down to the touch before those amber eyes would lift and meet his own sea colored ones. Calm and peaceful. A small smile rising to his lips.

                Their hands brushed again, and Ulfric imagined the smooth back of a nail running itself lightly over his weathered knuckles, curious and careful. And then another fingernail. And then the calluses of Loriel’s lute-hand, one finger slipping between two of his and the grainy edges of each other’s rough skin catching and a small smile rose to Ulfric’s mouth.

                Quietly large hands with thick fingers twined with long hands with slim fingers, and just held them there.

                Feeling Loriel’s pulse through his palm and the Altmer feeling his own in return.

                If this was the only ever sensation of touch he would know of Loriel’s hands then it would be enough.

                It would have to be enough.

                And Ulfric fell into a dreamless sleep.

                Galmar roused him before the evening meal, giving Ulfric at least two hours to catch up on a little sleep, and they went down to the war room to pour over the book Laronen had given.

                “The bastard couldn’t have written any larger?” Ysralad grumbled, squinting down at the small print.

                “It’s a lot written. He at least marked where the sections for different countries are,” Ulfric noted, having to squint as well but not for the same reason.

                His handwriting curled much like Loriel’s did, a trait perhaps taught among the Altmer, and with how small Laronen wrote in comparison to his brother, it made some of the words look blurred together. Laronen had managed to get at least twice as much information on every single page as Loriel would have, and even Loriel wrote rather small in comparison to published books.

                The Divines only knew how long it had taken Laronen to write all of this information.

                There were a lot of things he had given them.

                Detailed maps of Aldmeri Dominion buildings with details of individual levels, lists of recruits, petty soldiers, healers, guards, archers, mages, espionage specialists, Justicars, interrogators, emissaries, ambassadors, and council members, who was situated where, there were lists of where these peoples families lived, extended relatives, the numbers of how many weapons were demanded by the Aldmeri Dominion’s forces, specialized weapons for specialized individuals, from whom and where poisons and potions and alchemy ingredients were purchased from…

                So… incredibly many details.

                And Laronen believed every detail was worth the life of his brother.

                Laronen was willing to die just to keep his brother safe.

                And even before that, Laronen was willing to hand over information just as well to Arson himself.

                Laronen had been willing to die for an opportunity to set the Thalmor back for a long time.

                But all of this?

                All of this was more than enough to set the entire _Empire_ and all the independent nations up against the Aldmeri Dominion.

                Laronen wanted more than to just set the Thalmor back. He wanted to watch the entire Dominion go up in flames.

                And he had just put all of this information in the hands of a man who was very willing to strike the match.

                If the war was won, Ulfric believed that Laronen had earned himself more than just a fair pardon.

                If any of them survived at all, Ulfric would make sure that he was listed among the helpful.

                Quietly, Ulfric ran his tongue over a chapped edge of his lip before plates of food were brought into the war room by one of the servants and he thanked the woman whose bones creaked as she gave a small bow and left the room.

                He didn’t realize how hungry he was until then and it took all of his self-control to not wolf down his food.

                “Detailed son of a bitch…” Galmar murmured as he picked up one page as he licked the juices off his food-hand’s fingers, “ _Tundra cotton allergy, Zenolina Gaeal, Morthal-Dawnstar road patrol_. By Talos, allergic to _tundra cotton_ of all things?” and he laughed.

                Ulfric shook his head, smiling a little.

                Detailed son of a bitch indeed.

                Only a fool would ignore some of those little facts. Not something as simple as an allergy, but which roads were being patrolled and by whom of the Thalmor.

                He even wrote down a few patrols that were sneaking around Eastmarch and what their routes were, as well as their disguises.

                The Jarl of Windhelm was looking forward to clearing those Thalmor patrols out of his hold.

                Oh so very much.

                And two days later, Ulfric had only one dead Stormcloak to show for his own losses while ten Thalmor agents who had been sneaking about Eastmarch were dead and four more were under lock and key for interrogation.

                Elenwen was not going to be happy and it made the Jarl feel mirthful.

                Giddy almost.

                In three more days, Loriel would be back.

                And Ulfric wondered just what he should say to him when he got back.

                The most obvious of all things he knew he needed to say was an apology.

                But outside of that?

                He didn’t have the foggiest of ideas.

                Tomorrow, the team of Stormcloaks would rescue five known prisoners at the Thalmor Prison and bring home at the very least Loriel.

                Tomorrow.

                And when tomorrow came, Ulfric prayed much longer at the temple of Talos for the protection and guidance and strength over his men, for the safety over all of them.

                For Loriel’s return.

                And he as he stepped out of the temple, he saw a flash of orange dart out from the door to the second floor of Candlehearth Hall.

                Loriel’s cat.

                The creature was meowing loudly, crying almost, and the little beast shook its white paws from the cold of the stones of Windhelm, its body ringed with stripes of dark and light orange, those golden eyes peering about.

                It looked lost.

                Ulfric hadn’t been back into Candlhearth Hall since before he had made his mistake.

                He hadn’t seen the creature in over a month.

                The cat hadn’t seen his master in longer than that.

                And the little beasty turned back towards the doors but they were already shut, standing up on its hind legs and scratching at the door and crying.

                Loriel’s cat.

                He didn’t even know what the bard had named it.

                The creature looked up at Ulfric as he approached and it meowed up at him, loud and long, and he crouched to give it a couple strokes.

                “He’s coming home soon,” he said softly to the creature. “Loriel’s coming home.”

                The cat let out a soft _raow?_ and Ulfric smiled gently.

                He had never thought domestic cats would have much personality. He wasn’t much of an animal person.

                Lightly, he picked up the creature like he had seen Elda pick it up, like he had seen Loriel pick it up, and he tucked it into his arm as he stood up and went inside Candlehearth.

                Elda wasn’t even aware that the creature had gone missing until Ulfric descended the stairs with the cat climbing up the fur of his armor and perching on a shoulder.

                “Jarl Ulfric, what a surprise,” she greeted. “You get down from there,” she then told the cat.

                The cat only purred loudly and proudly.

                “He’s fine,” Ulfric said, lifting his hand and the feline sniffed them before rubbing its cheek against the digits. “I wanted to ask you about Loriel’s room.”

                “He’s been gone for over two months, sir. The only reason I haven’t moved anything is with the hope that he’ll come back at least for that creature,” Elda said with a huff and a nod to the cat.

                Ulfric frowned and glanced to the cat who squeaked at Elda.

                “Does it have a name?”

                The innkeeper frowned. “Lore only ever called it Baby.”

                Baby the cat.

                Funny.

                “How much does Loriel owe you?”

                Her frown deepened as she calculated the math.

                “He was in the positive by two weeks when he left but now he’s in the negative… About 460 Septims for keeping his room, and 120 for taking care of the cat and all its messes,” she told him.

                Loriel might make that much coin in a week with his constant singing, but… With the Thalmor having him captive…

                Ulfric could only remember how he had been after his own time under their attention.

                He wasn’t certain Loriel would be very keen on being around many people for a while after he got back.

                “I see.”

                The cat sniffed the air, tail standing tall for a moment before he climbed down the Jarl’s strong arm and then jumped down to the floor with a solid _thump_ before scampering over to Loriel’s room, the room that Baby had been calling home, and the creature clawed at the door and cried.

                “Not this again…” Elda groaned.

                Ulfric went over to the cat and the door and pushed it open lightly so the creature could go inside.

                Loriel’s room had changed since the last time that he had been in it, although that had been back when Loriel had gotten drunk with the Dunmer to celebrate the renovations to the Snow Quarter. That had been ten weeks ago. The last time Loriel had even been in Windhelm had been five weeks before Ulfric told him to not come back.

                Elda, or perhaps it was Baby, had managed to keep the place overall clean of dust but it showed signs of Loriel all over. His stacks of books and basket full of extra parchment scrolls and his bucket of sweing supplies with a half finished project that looked like an effort at making a new bag to carry his things in and his spare shoes that looked like they had been dragged across the floor by their laces by baby and an amulet of Akatosh and an amulet of Talos hanging on the thick leather needle that had been jammed into the wall for the project the two of them had worked on together.

                And sitting on top of the book shelf, a leather strap hung down from a wooden box.

                The box that Isran had given Loriel the bow in.

                And Baby batted at the dangling strap, biting it and clinging with his paws and kicking at it like a little menace that he was.

                And Ulfric felt…

                Empty.

                Lost.

                Besides Baby, there really wasn’t any feeling of life in the room. It was obviously occupied and cluttered, but… It was obvious it had been a long time.

                And he looked to the cat who had stopped his playing and had padded over to Ulfric and cried up at him.

                Reaching down, he scooped up the cat and sat on the edge of Loriel’s bed, and listened to the little guy purr and rub against Ulfric affectionately from the attention.

                “You miss him too,” he murmured.

                And the cat gave a soft squeak in return, standing up on his hind legs with his forepaws against Ulfric’s chest and he sniffed the end of Ulfric’s nose, the whiskers tickling the man.

                He couldn’t help but laugh a little.

                “I miss him too,” he murmured aloud.

                The Jarl spent almost an hour sitting in Loriel’s room, just spending time with the bard’s fur-child, and when he finally found it in himself to leave, the Jarl told Elda that he would have someone come by to pick up Loriel’s stuff so she could rent out the room. He would have Loriel’s things waiting for him in the Palace of the Kings. And the cat too.

                And with that, Ulfric left with Baby absently perched on his shoulder.

                Galmar was less than thrilled…

                A cat in the Palace of the Kings.

                Ulfric pointed out that Jarl Igmund had war dogs, and besides, he was mostly doing it so Loriel wouldn’t be in any further debt than he already was with Elda Early-Dawn. With Loriel also being captured by the Thalmor, it would be best to keep a close eye on him and monitor his recovery as well as keep him not only close to his brother but also well away from the eyes of the Thalmor, should any manage to infiltrate the city.

                Galmar knew a lie when he smelled one but said nothing.

                If Ulfric wanted to deal with the cat, fine.

                “Just don’t let it piss on my things,” Galmar growled.

                Ulfric rolled his eyes and spoke to one of the servants about perhaps one of them becoming responsible for taking care of the cat until its owner returned. One of the younger ones agreed to taking up the task and after speaking with his steward, the Jarl had it arranged for all of Loriel’s things to be gathered from his room in Candlehearth Hall and moved to the spare room in the North wing.

                The closer he was to Ulfric, the easier it would be for the Stormcloak leader to keep an eye on him.

                It would take some time but Jorleif would get it done by the end of the day, and Ulfric took the cat up to his own room to spend time with the creature in the mean time.

                When Ulfric woke up the next day, he got to find a nice present from Baby on the floor by his bed.

                A nice dead little present.

                It looked like the creature was already a little hunter and Ulfric tossed the mouse’s corpse into the fire before shooing the cat into the room Loriel would be staying in and told the servant where the cat was going to be staying for now to take care of it.

                She nodded and went to get Loriel’s fur-child some food and to scour the Jarl’s room for other less pleasant presents…

                Tomorrow.

                Tomorrow Ralof and the team was supposed to be back with Loriel.

                And he felt relieved.

                Loriel had a place under Ulfric’s roof so that he could keep an eye on him and keep him safe, everything in the room rearranged with Loriel’s things in mind, and the cat as well, and there wasn’t much else that Ulfric could do but wait.

                But time had other plans as a guard hurried into the Palace of the Kings shortly after the noon-time meal and said that a ship had just pulled into the docks and it wasn’t part of the East Empire Trading Company’s boats.

                That made Ulfric worry and he left his desk in the war room to head out into Windhelm and go towards the docks.

                He was almost there too before he stopped.

                A day ahead of schedule, a group of Stormcloak soldiers were coming up from the path to the docks, and at the front of the team that was half missing with four prisoners in toe, Ralof was carrying a limp Altmer in prisoner garb and a heavy cloak on his back.

                And behind all of them, an Altmer wearing Thalmor robes had a hood over his head, wrists bound and being lead by the elbows.


	18. Chapter Seventeen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just FYI, this is also posted on my Fanfiction account too. Same name, same story. Enjoy. And don't forget to comment please.

                Ulfric’s first orders to the team of returning men was for their Thalmor guest to be escorted down to a cell, make friends with his company down there, and to bring those who had been rescued down to the barracks so they could get attention from the healers, cleaned up, fed, and rested from their ordeal, yes, even the Argonian. He would speak with them tomorrow but they were to be put at ease before the Jarl of Windhelm would ask them to remember their sufferings at the hands of the Thalmor.

                Ulfric stopped Ralof before the man could follow with his precious cargo.

                Loriel’s face was hidden against Ralof’s shoulder, his hair loose and tangled and dirty and there was blood staining the fine gold strands, and not a small amount of it either. Ulfric couldn’t see how he was at the face and the cloak that protected him from the elements hid him from view of everyone else, but if his exposed arms and ankles were anything to show for his torment, the Thalmor had undoubtedly made him suffer.

                There was a large burn going up one of his arms, the skin shiny and marbled with discoloration, and his wrists and ankles were raw from shackles…

                There were quiet mumbles coming from the Mer.

                “He’s in a bad way,” Ralof told the Jarl, his expression anxious.

                Ulfric winced and he hesitantly reached out, his fingers barely brushing the Altmer’s hair away from his face and the Jarl could _feel_ the heat radiating off of Loriel’s skin even before he saw the feverish rose-gold hue and sweat dripping down from his forehead, his expression pained.

                _His_ bard was sick.

                “We’re taking him to Wuunferth,” Ulfric said firmly, “Tell me what happened.”

                Ralof drew in a deep breath as he followed after his Jarl and began to weave a tale that by the end made Ulfric’s gut churn with unease.

                Traveling through Haafingar and not getting stopped was easy if troublesome due to a rainstorm as they crossed Hjaalmarch, and from Dragon’s Bridge they continued to travel North-West, so that they could stay under the protective cover of the treeline while keeping an eye on the Keep that first day. It was very early in the morning on the day of the attack when what looked like a Thalmor Justicar rode down from the Embassy with a single guard as escort and entered the Keep, leaving his guard outside. That had been the only change from Laronen’s detailed plans, and when word came down that Elenwen had left the Embassy for Solitude, the team of Stormcloaks started their attack, catching the guards and archers by surprise with their assault. Only one of their men had been injured by returned arrows but it was easily cared for by potions before they stormed the Keep.

                They had almost been to the prisoner quarters when they heard screams.

                “The Interrogator had tried to slit Loriel’s throat, but… Loriel’s brother saved him.”

                Ulfric felt sick.

                It explained all the blood in Loriel’s hair…

                “He wouldn’t let us touch him until he healed Loriel. I’ve never seen restoration magic like his,” Ralof said before they arrived to Wuunferth’s room and Ulfric pounded on the man’s door.

                “What?!”

                “Wuunferth,” Ulfric called to his irritable court wizard and the man opened up the door quickly, startled that his Jarl had come directly to him instead of having one of the servant’s fetch him.

                And then the old man’s eyes wandered to the sickly elf at Ralof’s back.

                “Bring him inside.”

                Ulfric and Wuunferth carefully eased Loriel off Ralof’s back and onto the bed, the Mer delusional with his fever and barely conscious as the old wizard kept him sitting upright, evidence of three weeks of lack of freedom worn with the steady outgrowth of his blonde facial hair, and Ulfric’s breath caught in his throat as he peeled the cloak away from Loriel’s sweat-soaked back.

                The Thalmor had gone all out with torturing Loriel…

                More than just setting fire across his arm and binding his wrists and ankles too tightly, lashes from a whip were hatched into the bard’s skin, deep and overlapping and hideous with a brand seared into his skin in the shape of the Aldmeri Dominion’s seal, and branches of lightning extended to his back from his front, resting thick as an electrical storm over the same spot they had been before, a brand in the shape of an amulet of Akatosh resting at his sternum and a long cut leading from the corner of his eyebrow that extended into his hairline, curving above his ear. All of them were still raw and in various stages of healing, the newest ones were at least a day left alone…

                And then there was the slash along the side of Loriel’s throat. The only sign of it from Laronen’s attention was a slight discoloration in the shape of the wound but otherwise it was like it never happened in the first place. Ralof was right; He had never seen restoration magic like his.

                It looked like he had finally come to master that which Elenwen made him practice.

                Beneath the dried blood and raw wounds, there were signs of other injuries that were much older.

                Ones that Ulfric recognized but hadn’t bothered to memorize their existence the first two times he had the opportunity to ogle at Loriel.

                Thin scars, no wider than a razor’s edge, ticked over the edges of his ribs down Loriel’s side, evenly spaced all the way down and creeping below the hem of his pants, a hook-shaped scar just above his hip in the back, scars like punctures over his abdomen and two more at his back, and an old laceration that followed the curve of his shoulder before disappearing into the shine of his arm’s burnt skin.

                How could he have forgotten those?

                How could he forgotten the mars on the Mer that made him feel more mortal, more reachable to the Jarl?

                The wounds from Loriel’s torturing still needed to be healed and Ulfric could only think of one person who was qualified enough to do the work.

                “Ralof, go get his brother. Bring him here. If he could do that to his throat…” Ulfric started.

                That was all he had to say for the man to leave their side and Ulfric supported Loriel to keep him off his injuries, allowing Wuunferth to go to his alchemy table, no doubt to make a potion to reduce the fever that was burning through the elf.

                Loriel’s lips were still moving, incomprehensible words still quietly falling from that mouth and Ulfric cradled the delusional elf’s jaw and cheek in one hand, the coarse hairs of the elf’s beard strange against his palm, and Loriel leaned into the touch, the Divines only knew how starved he was for some form of contact that wasn’t abuse.

                Ulfric’s heart broke as he felt the first tear drip over his fingers.

                He had let this happen to Loriel.

                _He_ had pushed Loriel away.

                And Loriel had suffered as the result.

                He had gone through so incredibly much because Ulfric had reacted in fear and the Jarl of Windhelm would not be able to make it up to him, not with all the gold and jewels in Nirn.

                And Ulfric vowed that if all he could ever do for the rest of his life was just to protect Loriel then that would be enough.

                If he lost the war and still lived, as long as Loriel was safe, that would be enough.

                If he won the war, as long as Loriel was safe, that would be enough.

                If the war never came to an end, as long as Loriel was safe, that would be enough.

                That would be enough.

                It would have to be enough.

                Ralof returned with Laronen, the Mer still in binds, and his expression pinched in pain as those eyes rested on his brother.

                “Cut his binds,” Ulfric ordered.

                Ralof hesitated before doing just that, and the moment they were slit, the Mer rushed to his brother’s side, his knees hitting the floor hard and he cupped his brother’s face in his hands.

                “Lore? Loriel? Hey, look at me,” he said, tucking strands of hair away from his brother’s face, his own hair spilling out from the downed Thalmor hood and hanging long and loose. “Loriel. Brother. Look at me,” he repeated firmly and those hazy eyes opened enough, barely focusing on the other. “Good. Keep your eyes on me, don’t look away. Okay? Don’t look away.”

                With Laronen taking the reins, Ulfric shifted away and Ralof took his place in supporting the elf. Getting Loriel to focus and his murmurs ceasing was trying on Laronen but he didn’t stop talking, just talking, about anything that he could talk about, anything that could keep his brother’s attention.

                Ulfric knew why.

                He was keeping Loriel from sinking further into shock than he already was.

                He had suffered for weeks under the hands of the Thalmor and he had almost died from the Interrogator cutting his throat and his fever was making him only that much more susceptible to psychological damage.

                But at the same time, the fever was also making Loriel’s mind more moldable, more malleable to Laronen’s strategic tugs that made Loriel think about the things Laronen discussed rather than stewing on his torture.

                Mostly, Laronen talked about Skyrim.

                He talked about how green everything was near Falkreath, and how beautiful the canyons of the Reach were, and he talked about Solitude, and how the Bard’s College was mourning their loss of him, they had lost their best bard after all. He talked about Whiterun where the Jarl had recently been faced with a problem with his children, and how the Mead Hall of the Companions was just as loud as he expected it to be. He talked about the food and how bland he thought it was but how it was just like that first meal Loriel had made him when they had met in secret after he had snuck across the border of Elswyer into Cyrodiil while on his way to Black Marsh, the first meal Loriel had ever made that hadn’t gagged Laronen for all of his sensitive, spoiled taste palette. He talked about Riften and how Maven Black-Briar was the Jarl due to the Imperials taking control over the hold from the Dragonborn’s peace treaty and how grating her voice was to listen to and he hoped she got sacked. And he talked about Winterhold and how he hoped that once the war was over he might stay in Skyrim just to enroll in the College to see if he could learn anything more about Restoration magic.

                All the while, Laronen traced his free hand over Loriel’s back, the brilliant glow gleaming off the wall as he healed his brother’s wounds, Ralof watching and his expression turning impressed as he witnessed what Ulfric did not.

                Wuunferth approached with a bowl.

                “For his fever,” the old man told Laronen as he looked up and the Mer thanked him with soft, sad eyes as he took the bowl.

                “Loriel. Lore, I need you to drink this. It will help you feel better. Help take down your fever. Here, can you drink?” he asked, tipping the edge against the bard’s lips and he crooned praises as he drank, slow at first and then deeper.

                He was thirsty.

                Dehydrated.

                But the potion would help him cool down.

                Once Loriel finished drinking down the potion, Laronen cupped his brother’s face in his hands and rested their foreheads together, the contact affectionate and almost intimate and Loriel closed his eyes, drawing in a shuddered breath.

                “They’re never going to touch you ever again. I won’t let them. I won’t. I’ll die before I let that happen,” Laronen promised.

                Finally, Loriel’s shoulders shook before he let out a weak sob.

                Those weak hands came up and he clung to his mirror image, and Laronen hugged him tight.

                Protective.

                Hopeful.

                And healing.

                And Ulfric stepped out into the hall.

                There was no reason for him to stay.

                The guards who had come with as Laronen’s escort were standing outside and Ulfric gave the order that when Wuunferth was done, the Jarl wanted the bard and his brother taken to the spare room in the North wing, the first room on the right side of the hall. Where all Loriel’s things and his cat already were. Laronen was to be unbound once in the room and only Ysralda, Galmar, and Ulfric himself were to be allowed into the room unless otherwise escorted by a guard. If Laronen opened the door, he was not to be allowed to leave the room but he could make requests to the guards as to things he needed to be brought for his brother’s care. He was recognizable. No scars from lightning on his neck, his hair down to his waist. If Loriel tried to leave the room, Ulfric asked that a guard tail him to make sure he was safe.

                “Is that wise sir?” one of them asked and Ulfric gave the man a half-hearted glare.

                “That Thalmor is our ace in the sleeve against the Thalmor and not to be treated like some lowly Thalmor Justicar. Our custody of him means we have the upperhand against their ambassador and if I didn’t know how willing that Mer is to keep Loriel alive, I wouldn’t leave the Bard of Windhelm alone with him,” he snapped before ascending the steps to his room, too emotionally distraught to bring himself to eat after all that he had seen on that Mer that he was in love with.

                If Ulfric had forgotten to state anything among the guards, he was certain Galmar would pick up where he had failed.

                He fell into his bed and stared at the display case that had the Altmer ring in it.

                He was afraid to close his eyes and sleep for fear that he would dream of a whip in his own hands and Loriel’s broken self at his feet. It was his fault after all. The whip might as well have been in his hands…

                Ulfric thought about Loriel’s skin under his hands, the way he had leaned into the touch to his cheek, the way his ribs felt hard and sharp under his palm, the way he felt so light as helped him stay sitting up.

                How heat burned off of him like a fire.

                He was so sick…

                And Ulfric thought about the way Laronen handled his brother, how he touched the wounded man, unafraid to make contact with _his_ skin as he healed him. The way he had hugged his brother once Loriel’s mind had managed to come back to the surface after the ex-Thalmor had reeled him out of the murk.

                _He_ had saved Loriel.

                Not Ralof and his team, half of which was traveling back with the horses and would likely arrive by tomorrow.

                Not Ulfric and his orders.

                _Laronen_ had.

                And the only thing that hurt worse than his dreams was when he woke halfway through the night to the sounds of the bard crying out.

                Unwilling to indulge himself in more unconscious torment, Ulfric dressed himself plainly before going down the stairs and nodding to the guards outside before tapping on the door to give the occupants some warning before he stepped inside.

                Sometime during the evening after Ulfric had retired to his room, Laronen had asked for a couple buckets of water, the contents of which were murky with blood and soiled cloths but Loriel’s skin had been purged of filth, only his hair showing lingering signs, that hair cascading over Laronen’s lap as his brother sat on the floor with his back to the bed, his touch light as he soothingly stroked undamaged skin. Laronen’s Thalmor robes and gloves were absent, leaving the Altmer in his long-sleeved undershirt and pants, and Loriel had been changed into soft white cotton clothes, light on his skin and making him stand out like gold against ivory, the orange cat curled up against the bard’s abdomen, asleep.

                Laronen looked up tiredly.

                “Bad dream,” he said quietly.

                “He’ll have a lot of those,” Ulfric murmured.

                Laronen nodded and looked down at his brother.

                “Thank you. For sending help,” Laronen said softly.

                “You’re the one who really saved him.”

                The ex-Thalmor only shook his head. “No I haven’t. I couldn’t save anyone even if I tried. I’m not like Lore.”

                “You kept him from sinking back there. When you were healing him. I saw what you were doing. It helped,” Ulfric told him, sitting down in a chair.

                They settled in silence, no one with any idea how to speak to the other.

                They didn’t have the same relationship with each other as they both did with Loriel.

                And Laronen sucked a nervous breath in between his teeth.

                “Ordering my capture was a smart idea. It will put my mother on edge.”

                “Your reminder of our mutual contact gave me the idea.”

                Keep the inside contact safe, put Elenwen on edge while keeping.

                And after a long period of quiet, Ulfric drew in a deep breath and he looked down to Laronen, “What was Loriel like, growing up with him?”

                A small huff of laughter escaped the Mer’s throat, those fingers tracing over his shoulder. “He was wild,” he admitted and Ulfric watched as the trace of a smile curved at his lips, the first smile he had ever seen him wear and he closed his eyes to remember.

                “Loriel was a little fireball compared to Lermion and I, I was always the shy one of the three of us and Lermion was always so easy going. But Lore… You’d always find him making some sort of trouble, stealing food that was supposed to be for later, picking fights with the children of the next local house, wanting to bring home every stray animal that he could, that part hasn’t changed much though,” he said, looking at the cat. “He was bold and brave and he’d never turn down a dare, which lead to a lot of stupid injuries and a lot of sit-downs with our father. He always loved to read and write and sing though. And he hated the Isles. He hated how people were always rushing around like ants, his words not mine, and how there was a distinct line between social classes and how if you were a child from one class you couldn’t socialize with children of another social class and how snooty and snotty children of the upper class were. We were only upper class because of our father’s rank in the Thalmor, before our mother came out of her retirement when we were old enough to be vaguely trusted by ourselves. We were still treated like lower-class though by the rest of the upper class, because our parents’ status had been earned instead of given to them by blood. Lore would sneak out all the time, try to skip lessons, just so he could spend time with the children in the lower class. They were funner. Funnier. Just as lively as he was. He was always more at home playing with the sticks and mud and sword-fighting. You wouldn’t believe how much our mother and him butted heads growing up.”

                Ulfric smiled, already easily able to imagine Elenwen getting snarled at by a golden skinned eight year old and getting pulled home by the edge of one of his long ear.

                “Our mother liked his spit-fire though. She thought it would be a sign that he would make a good Thalmor soldier. She thought that until the day she decided to bring the three of us into the Thalmor headquarters, to show us around and tell us how everything went. What she and father did for work. Everything was good and all until she took us down to the interrogation hall,” he said and Laronen lost his smile.

                “We were only 44. Most potential candidates are at least 50 before they go on the tour, but our mother wanted to start training us all as soon as she could. We were all horrified at what we saw down there. I was training to be a healer at the time being, and Lermion was already an apprentice blacksmith. Loriel was the only one of us that didn’t have a trade that our parents thought was worth-while. They hated the idea of him becoming a bard more than they hated the idea of him becoming an archivist, even though he was as good at both as he was destruction magic. Mother had the most hope for him in the Thalmor, but he threw that in our parents’ faces three days after she brought us down there by wandering straight into the Hall of Records and managed to set an entire level of the building on fire before he sneaking onto a cargo ship and disappeared.”

                Laronen rubbed his mouth and drew in a breath.

                “He always wanted to get away from the Isles. And he did. With our parents and an entire investigation team nipping at his heels.”

                Loriel had been just a little younger than Ulfric was now when he experienced what the Thalmor was really like. He had lived so sheltered before then. Just a boy in his society. And if Loriel looked to be in his early 30’s now despite being 94, and at nearly half his current age, that meant that Loriel was barely a man at 44. Maybe 16 by Nord standards, if not even younger than that...

                “You said you had met up with him back when he crossed the boarder into Cyrodiil. He cooked for you.”

                Laronen nodded, grateful for the change of topic.

                “It was about two years after he got caught in Valenwood. I hadn’t seen him since he had booked it 8 years before but I was in Skingrad. Mother had convinced her superior officer in the Dominion to have me stationed there, to be trained under the Master Healer that was alive then, before the Great War made the Imperial Army crack down on Altmer activity. I didn’t even recognize Loriel at first, I just thought I was walking by a beggar before he grabbed my hand and told me, all cryptic like ‘you lost something eight years ago’. And he told me to go to the red-light district after dusk, to a very specific tavern, and ask for Tori Strid. Gods, I thought I was going to die of embarrassment. But there he was, waiting for me. I couldn’t believe how much he had changed. He looked _alive_ , like… like… It was like he was a bird that had finally escaped its cage and he just… He was so _happy_. Being free of our parents did that. He cooked for me, told me how he was doing, how he had been, what he had done. I was just so glad to see him alive. We stayed up until dawn, just talking. Everyone thought that I had gotten a much needed lay, but no one figured out that the only person I saw had been him. I had no idea how _badly_ I needed to see him until I did,” he said, smiling as he pulled the memory to the front of his mind.

                Ulfric found himself smiling too.

                He hadn’t known how badly he missed Loriel until he saw him again, being brought home by Ralof.

                And Ulfric looked down at the sleeping Mer, his fingers curling in the fabric of Laronen’s pant leg, those long fingers. Ulfric wanted so badly to reach out and take that hand.

                “How did he heal?”

                “Incredibly well. Your men, they made an effort to clean his wounds while they were on the ship. Crude work, and tedious, but they saved me a lot of time. If I had healed him while the wounds were still dirty all I could have done was trapped an infection under his skin. His fever though… He had that before I came down to the Keep. That was why I was down there. Mother wanted him to suffer for as long as possible and a fever that could kill him was not part of her plans for that.”

                His stomach twisted with anger.

                “I didn’t even get to touch him before the Interrogator heard your boys and slit my brother’s throat. That was the first time in twenty years I had used a destruction spell. And for the first time, I don’t regret hurting someone.”

                He was gazing down at his brother, his fingers twisting in the dirty hair, muscles tight but controlled. His other hand was balled into a fist at his side.

                Ulfric was glad Laronen had been there.

                Otherwise, Loriel wouldn’t have survived at all, even with his boys there to save him.

                Ralof had thought to bring more firepower than he had thought he would need a healer. A handful of potions wouldn’t have stopped Loriel from bleeding to death before they were able to stop the Interrogator and get to him.

                “You have no idea how much your brother means to me,” Ulfric finally said.

                And Laronen was silent.

                They stayed in that room together for a long time before Loriel’s sleep began to turn into nightmares again and Laronen woke his brother up, and Ulfric watched as the betrayer held his mirror image, coaching him down from hyperventilating and making him drink cold water as slowly as he could.

                “Are you hungry? Do you want to try to eat something?” Laronen asked, his touch gentle, light as he cupped the back of his brother’s neck, lowering his head so that he could meet his brother’s eyes from his hunched position in his panic. “You should eat something. Let’s see if we can get some food, okay?”

                Ulfric stood, “Stay with him, I’ll get it. They’ll be faster if I do it,” he said and Loriel looked over his shoulder at Ulfric, startled by the sound of his voice.

                His fever was still making his skin rosy but he didn’t look so sick any more.

                He looked exhausted.

                And scared.

                Ulfric winced though from his expression.

                _My fault_ , he remembered.

                _He’s like this and it’s my fault_.

                And Ulfric left, his heart in his throat, the expression that Mer had worn seared into his mind.

                Loriel was afraid.

                Of _him_.

                And that hurt worse than any torture the Thalmor had ever inflicted on him.


	19. Chapter Eighteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just FYI, this is also posted on my Fanfiction account too. Same name, same story. Enjoy. And don't forget to comment please.

                For the next week, Ulfric did everything he could to only pass Loriel’s room twice a day and in the night he would pull the pillow over his head to try to block out the sounds of that elf crying out in his sleep.

                Most of the time, all Laronen asked for was water. Food was brought up for the two of them, and the cat, twice a day, and on the second day a bathing tub was brought up to the room so that the brothers could get cleaned up. The days that Laronen asked for water was usually the days where Loriel would into a panicked fit that would either result in something getting broken or making the bard’s stomach turn itself inside out. The most recent adventure included a broken ink well, Loriel’s foot, and a humorous amount of inky paw prints that, judging by the shout that was a far cry from Loriel’s usual crass sense of word choice, Baby hadn’t been nearly as amused as Ulfric had.

                And then, after coming back from a patrol, he saw the first sign of life.

                Loriel had dared to walk out of the room without his brother, the cat sneaking out with him, and Ulfric watched the bard ghost around the palace, barely a wisp of smoke in comparison to the self Ulfric loved so much. His eyes darted around, and he jumped at the slightest bit of noise, and he would shy away when spoken to, and he didn’t dare speak, the cat constantly circling Loriel’s legs and happily meowing up at him.

                Ulfric could only bring himself to give Loriel a silent nod in acknowledgement, his eyes meeting the guard that was keeping an eye on the bard, all before settling himself into the war room to speak with Galmar about the patrol. Laronen was a mountain of information on Thalmor activity and the company was able to take out another group of Thalmor sneaking about in Eastmarch, as well as finally disposing of the Thalmor they had lurking in the prisons, much to Laronen’s distaste for death.

                Elenwen was already on edge in Haafingar in the wake of the attack on the Thalmor prison and the kidnapping of the Fourth Emissary from right under her nose, and now Ulfric’s sources were telling him of how heavily the woman was breathing down Tullius’ neck about restarting the war. Tullius on the other hand seemed rather content with biding his time.

                He seemed to enjoy Elenwen being pissed off.

                The General also did not want to be the one to make the first move in restarting the war.

                He wanted Ulfric to make the first move.

                And he would.

                He had been hearing things in Whiterun lately that was staving off the ideas of sacking that particular city. He wanted to take control of that city bloodlessly and would be grateful to Talos if he could convince Balgruuf to take his side in the war. He needed a man who already knew how to run his city and was well established, not some replacement who didn’t have a grasp on the city.

                No, he would reclaim the Rift from the Imperial control first, take back what Arson had given away.

                But it would take a little more time.

                A little more time.

                It was a little too early for the evening meal but Ulfric hadn’t eaten while on the patrol and breakfast had been light in the wake of his nightmares, and the Jarl came out of the war room and headed down to the kitchens, almost walking right into Loriel as the Altmer was making a hasty retreat and for a moment they were both too startled to say anything except jump back from each other, Loriel’s chest heaving, pupils small in those amber eyes before he darted to Ulfric’s left and slipped past him on light, bare feet and booked it past Galmar into the war room.

                He heard the one door slam in the war room before he turned and almost found himself nose to nose with Loriel’s guard and the man stepped to the side so that the Jarl could pass and then hurrying after Loriel.

                Something had made Loriel panic and he wanted to know what.

                Descending into the kitchens, he asked what Loriel had been doing down there to the cook. The old man drew in a deep breath and shook his head, motioning to one of the tables that had food stuffs on it. “Looking lost. He looked around for a bit before he picked up an apple and a knife, started peeling it. Then he just suddenly dropped everything and got out of here fast.”

                At the corner of the table was an apple, a couple scraps of skin taken off, and the knife.

                And Ulfric’s eyes softened.

                Something had startled him.

                In the kitchen there was a lot that could have happened. Someone dropping something, the pop of fat over the fire, the collapse of the fire wood… A lot of things could have set him off.

                And all he wanted was to get out of there.

                Having the freedom to get away to some place he felt safe was the best thing Ulfric could have done for him, and Ulfric felt that as long as he didn’t walk out the front door of the palace, he could keep Loriel safe.

                He would check on Loriel later.

                Make sure he got back to his brother alright.

                Baby was sitting by the fire, staring up at the roast on the spit and licking his chops, his tail eagerly flicking behind him.

                The Jarl smiled a little. “Give him a taste,” he suggested to one of the aids who was rotating the spit, nodding down to the cat. The woman pursed her lips before she cut off a sliver and dropped it on the floor a little further away from the fire. Baby squawked and scampered after it, eagerly devouring it with huffy breaths.

                Ulfric was guessing that it was still hot from the way the cat stuck his tongue out, panting almost like a dog as he looked around afterwards.

                He smiled a little more as he picked up the apple Loriel had been cutting and then picked up the cat, the creature squirming in his grip before the Jarl put him on his shoulder and Baby gave a cry in glee, nudging his nose against the Jarl’s cheek. He picked up a second apple and headed out of the kitchen.

                The guards gave him odd side-glances as the Bear of Markarth walked by with Loriel’s half-grown cat circling his shoulders, and he headed to Loriel’s room, lightly tapping on the door before he came in.

                Loriel was shaking, laying face down on the bed and Laronen was gently stroking his back through his shirt from where he sat on the other side of the double bed and the ex-Thalmor looked up at Ulfric’s entry, the cat thumping down onto the ground and scampering over with an eager cry, hopping up on the bed and making himself comfortable at Loriel’s shoulder before he gave a loud and long meow in the Mer’s face.

                The bard reacted slowly, rolling onto his side, facing his brother, and wrapped his arms around the cat.

                “Did something happen?”

                “The kitchen spooked him.”

                Laronen frowned and gazed down at his brother who was still clinging to his cat, Baby purring loudly from the attention and Ulfric offered the apple Loriel had been cutting to Laronen before he pulled up a chair to the bedside.

                The ex-Thalmor sighed.

                “Does Legionnaire’s disease ever get any easier?”

                Ulfric frowned softly as he watched Laronen take a bite of the apple and gave the piece he had taken off to his brother, who ate it quietly, not disgusted by the sharing of saliva. They were pretty much the same person and they were both vastly comfortable with each other. Besides them being brothers, Laronen was also his brother’s care taker at the moment.

                Keeping Loriel psychologically comfortable was the utmost top priority.

                “For some people it does. Some it doesn’t.”

                “You got better though. How did you do it?”

                Ulfric thought back to that time.

                “I went home. I went home to my father, and my mother, and my best friend eventually came too. Galmar had his own experiences with Legionnaire’s disease, but not like what I experienced. The first few months after I got back were the hardest,” Ulfric said quietly. “I would wake up almost hourly, either from screaming myself awake or someone waking me up. I would gorge myself on water until I was sick and cry myself back to sleep. Some days it was all I could do to keep water down, other days I was ravenous. When the nightmares were really bad, I would stay awake for days, afraid to go to sleep. My parents would do as much as they could for me, but there were some things that not even they could help me with. Most of the time, when I was awake, I tried to find something to keep me busy. And the days where being busy hurt too much, I would go to the roof and just watch the sky.”

                Laronen was quiet, taking another bite of apple and giving it to Loriel, stroking his hair.

                “I’m sorry. For all the pain I caused you.”

                “You didn’t torture me. Your mother did.”

                “But I was part of it.”

                Ulfric gazed out the window.

                “You played a part in my recovery though. For the short term,” he said.

                When there was no response, he continued. “I couldn’t stand to be touched when I came back. It felt like everyone wanted to touch me when I got back, a hand on mine, my arm, my shoulder, my back. I didn’t want to be touched. Being touched only made me think of the pain your mother set on me. Every time someone was near me, I would be on edge, constantly worried that they might reach out to me and the feel of their skin would be too much. It was when someone was near me and didn’t touch me that I had some relief.”

                “Healers call that sensory overload. Some people experience it with touch, like you did. What did I do though?”

                And Ulfric gazed back to him.

                “You never touched me when you healed me. It made it easier to associate safety with not being touched.”

                Their eyes met.

                The Mer looked surprised. And sad. But mostly surprised. And his gaze dropped, back to his brother.

                “I didn’t want to touch anyone back then. Seeing what my mother would do… I would see people flinch under my touch and I just couldn’t bring myself to push them with contact,” he explained.

                “I remember how you would flinch too.”

                Laronen said nothing and stroked Loriel’s hair.

                “He’s asleep,” he murmured.

                And Ulfric was grateful that Loriel hadn’t been listening.

                It was a bad topic to listen to when actively trying to recover.

                And for a while, there was only silence between them, Loriel sleeping with his cat, Laronen’s eyes only on his brother’s face, and Ulfric’s eyes only on his bard’s back.

                “The first time I saw him was in Solitude. After I had killed the High King in a challenge for the throne. I saw that as the only way to get Skyrim to be free from the Empire’s clutches while they continued to be the Thalmor’s lapdogs. He was by the clothing shop there in the city, singing a song that was two eras old. Beauty of Dawn. At first I thought he was you. But every time I slept after that day, when I dreamed of being tortured by your mother again, that song he sang would make me realize I was dreaming. Help me wake up easier,” Ulfric said after a time and he drew in a deep, steadying breath.

                “The second time I saw him was at Helgen. After my men had been captured out at DarkWater Crossing.”

                “My mother had strategized that ambush.”

                “I figured it was either her or Tullius,” Ulfric agreed, “We were getting off the carts when I saw his face, getting hauled over to the groups and getting his name listed off. The man who read the list knew him. Hesitated on his name. I think they might have been friends back in Solitude,” he said and rubbed the back of his neck. “Your brother went to the block willingly. Like he was ready to die. The headsman was about to drop the axe when the dragon came. We all ran.”

                Laronen listened patiently, his fingers still twisting in his brother’s hair, his eyes closed as he imagined the scene.

                “I got to the Keep first, followed by a soldier who died in my arms. Then Loriel and Ralof came in and barred the door. The two of them stuck by each other’s side from the moment the dragon showed up. When we were safe in the keep with the dragon outside and no where else to go, Loriel recognized me. He remembered that glimpse of me he had back at Solitude. He,” and Ulfric laughed, rubbing his mouth with his hand. “he actually lost his temper with me when he realized I was the one who caused the Thalmor to come to Solitude to speak to Tullius after what I had done. I still thought he was you, I told him I had seen him 30 years before. He had been in Solstheim at the time, far away from the war. And then he made the connection. Told me he was your brother. I didn’t believe him until he showed me how poor his talent was in restoration magic. After that, I believed him. We made it half way through the Keep, the three of us, before we got separated because of the dragon’s assault on the fort. I don’t know what happened to your brother and Ralof after that,” he explained.

                “Ralof… That was one of the men who came to rescue the prisoners?”

                “He was the one who fetched you from the cell to heal Loriel.”

                The Mer nodded.

                “The next time I saw your brother was two months later. Ralof had shown up about two weeks after the attack on Helgen, but I don’t know what Loriel had been doing in the meantime. He just showed up at Windhelm, enjoying the nice cold weather while suffering from a fever. And he made himself cozy in the city. Made himself popular among the people, singing. He got to be really well liked. And then he’d disappear for sometimes days to weeks at a time, off on some adventure. I got to hear him sing once while I was in the inn he was staying at, after he had beaten up a drunk and thrown him out for harassing a Dunmer friend of his. He sang one of the songs of the War of Three Banners. I… After that, I made an effort to take better care of my people. All of my people, not just Nords. Because he lectured me,” he admitted, smiling to himself.

                He actually found it enjoyable, now that he thought about it, for every time Loriel had lost his temper with him.

                He had lost his temper back at Helgen. And lost his temper back after throwing Rolff out. But every time since then had been seeing that temper directed at others. Snarling at Rolff, jeering him into a fight and then slandering him after he lost. Insulting the captain back at Fort Amol after running for his life from a dragon. Getting angry at Isran when he showed up unannounced.

                “He has a tendency to not think before opening his mouth when he’s angry about something. Our grandmother said that he got that from her husband,” Laronen said, sounding fond. “We look a lot like our father, but… Lore’s personality was every bit of our grandfather. He’s the Mer we got our blush from. She said it was because _his_ grandfather had been a Breton.Being red-blushers rather than bronze got us a lot of guff growing up. Our mother didn’t find out until she went to the Hall of Records after our father died in the Great War. I’m pretty sure Loriel still doesn’t know.”

                That explained a lot.

                That charming red blush was the only sign of Loriel’s ancestral breeding. He remembered all the times he had seen that blush, be it out of anger or embarrassment. He remembered the times he had dreamed of that blush, imagined it while giving himself relief, and he shook his head, willing _those_ particular thoughts away from his mind.

                “I don’t think he’d care.”

                “He probably wouldn’t,” Laronen agreed before a yawn made his shoulders shudder.

                “Finish your apple and get some sleep, you’re no good to your brother exhausted,” Ulfric told him and gave a small smile, standing up from his chair.

                At the sound of the movement, Baby perked his head up and meowed at Ulfric, and he reached over to stroke the cat’s ears.

                “Good night, Jarl Ulfric.”

                “Good night, Laronen.”

                That night, Ulfric didn’t dream.

                And when he woke in the morning, Ulfric checked on Loriel and Laronen. The room was absent of the bard and the ex-Thalmor was sleeping with his mouth open wide.

                Loriel was already wandering the palace.

                And like a ghost, Loriel continued to be found wandering the palace before dawn, and his haunts continued to lead him down to the kitchens. Only twice in the week after his long conversation with Laronen did he see Loriel flee from the kitchen after there was something that startled him, but he seemed to be getting used to the sound from the location.

                Sensory overload.

                Ulfric’s had been touch.

                It seemed that Loriel’s was sound.

                When Laronen was asked, he admitted that Loriel had yet to talk, but he was starting to write. Absentminded things, little scatterings of thoughts, sometimes things that were poetic, sometimes things that he wanted. It startled Ulfric to one day walk into the war room to find Loriel gazing over the map in the middle of the table with his blonde beard suddenly missing. He had started to grow used to the sight of it.

                It had been done the night before under the close supervision of a guard, Laronen cutting down his own outgrowth that had been starting to match Loriel’s and then Loriel had written his request for the same. Now that they were both clean-shaven, Ulfric occasionally had to do a double take when he came to talk to Laronen while Loriel was there.

                But Ulfric took it as a sign that Loriel was getting better.

                After that, Ulfric gave the order for all of Loriel’s blades to be given back.

                A few days after, when he came to see how Loriel was doing with Laronen, his brother told him he was asking for a guitar.

                A musical instrument.

                Ulfric told him he’d see what he could do about getting one for Loriel and maybe a day after, Jorleif managed to find out from the Dunmer bard at Candlehearth Hall where one could be purchased from a Bosmer down in Riften by the name of Valindor and had a courier sent to inquire about getting one of the instruments.

                The fact that Loriel had asked for something of his trade gave Ulfric hope, even if Loriel wasn’t quite ready to sing let alone speak.

                And then, one surprisingly warm evening, it started to rain.

                Ulfric hoped that it stayed warm long enough that the rain would soak into the ground fitfully instead of freezing. The clouds were heavy and rolling and the Jarl only hoped that they wouldn’t be in for too much bad weather off of the sea. Boats were expensive to fix.

                As the evening wore into night, all the ships were brought to the other side of the bridge, further away from the open water and under the shelter of the city from the wind coming on off the Sea of Ghosts.

                Ulfric was speaking with Galmar and Ysralad in the War room before a huge crash of thunder shook the palace, echoed moments later by a loud wail coming from behind the door to the North wing.

                He only needed to meet their eyes for a moment before the two commanders said the conversation could be finished in the morning and Ulfric was grateful before he headed up the stairs.

                The door to Loriel’s room was open and Laronen was pacing nervously in the open room, looking up when the guard spoke to Ulfric, telling him, “The bard bolted upstairs.”

                Well there was only one room further up and that was his own.

                Loriel was otherwise trapped.

                “I’ll take care of him,” he told the guard and his eyes briefly met with Laronen. He looked worried and Ulfric lifted his chin before he turned to go to his room. Loriel’s guard was waiting outside the room, the door ajar, and he gave Ulfric a concerned look.

                “I’ll take care of him. You’re dismissed,” Ulfric told him calmly, stepping past the man and into the room.

                He heard Loriel before he saw him, crumpled on the floor just off the edge of the platform to the left of the fireplace. His hand was clutching his knee, forehead against the ground, his shoulders shuddering and seizing and Ulfric closed the door as quietly as he could, taking off his shoes and leaving them there before he approached Loriel.

                He was sobbing, his breath coming in ragged heaves as he tried to catch his breath but couldn’t.

                Seeing him like that broke his heart all over again.

                He knelt by Loriel, his fingers barely a fraction of an inch away from Loriel’s curled hand.

                “Loriel?” he asked, very softly.

                The Mer sat up without looking at him, drawing his hands away and he hid his face in his hands, a whine in his throat as he cried.

                Hesitating, Ulfric reached out and brushed away some hair that clung to his wet lips.

                The action made the bard’s fingers curl, enough to expose his bloodshot eyes and tearstained cheeks and red face and a shudder rolled through his body. Another rumble of thunder along with a sharp whistle of wind down the chimney made Loriel curl in on himself with another wail, his hands clutching his ears, rocking back and forth in panic.

                “Go away, go away…” Ulfric heard him whisper, over and over, his voice was barely above a breath, cracked and wheezing.

                A tear hung on the end of his nose.

                Sound tore at Loriel the way touch had torn at Ulfric. And all he could think of was what he did next.

                He reached out, cupping one hand over one of Loriel’s and the other wrapping about his shoulder, drawing him close. He tucked the elf’s head under his chin, feeling the shape of that ear against his collar.

                Give him something else to listen to.

                Something calm.

                Something repetitive.

                A pulse.

                A heartbeat.

                And he held Loriel for the first time, feeling every shudder that went through his body, feeling his freed hand curl up in the quilting of his tunic shirt.

                For the rest of the night, Ulfric held onto him, feeling those shudders gradually still, his breath grow even and calm, and Ulfric barely recognized Loriel sagging against him until Ulfric had leaned back against his headboard and looked down to see the man he was in love with asleep, likely out of pure exhaustion from the panic attack.

                The Jarl of Windhelm closed his eyes and pressed his lips to the top of Loriel’s resting head, and he promised himself that holding him like this would be enough.

                He would love Loriel in silence.

                And that would be enough.

                It would be enough.

                If there were no more moments like this, then this moment alone would be enough for him to survive a lifetime on.


	20. Chapter Ninteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just FYI, this is also posted on my Fanfiction account too. Same name, same story. Enjoy. And don't forget to comment please.

                One unusual thing Ulfric woke up to the following morning was to an incredibly stiff back.

                The second was the smell of breakfast.

                And when he opened his eyes, he found himself alone in his room, the only evidence that Loriel had even been in the room was a tray of breakfast sitting by the cold hearth, still steaming, with a note in Loriel’s familiar curling handwriting.

                **_Thank you._**

**_Lor_ **

                A soft smile met the Jarl’s lips before he arched his back to help crack and found extreme discomfort in not being able to get rid of the tightness.

                If Loriel ever did that again, Ulfric would have to insist upon laying down instead of falling asleep sitting.

                If it ever happened again.

                Ulfric had high doubts.

                As he ate his breakfast, he thought of Loriel’s weight against him, the way he felt in his arms, the smell of his hair, the way his tears stung the air, the way his forehead crinkled and his nose wrinkle and the color of his eyes when he cried. How the usually strong elf looked so weak in that moment, recoiling from the roar of the storm overhead, and how he had _leaned_ into his embrace.

                His shoulders didn’t feel as broad as they looked, but all his muscles were tight even when his body was relaxed with sleep.

                The Mer was fully capable of being dangerous when he wanted to be, but it had been a long time since he had seen Loriel with a weapon in his hand.

                Not since Helgen.

                The only other example he had was watching a very drunk Loriel have the upper hand over an equally drunk Rolff.

                Arson had seen more of what Loriel was capable of than even Ulfric had.

                He said he was good with a bow.

                Ulfric was curious.

                He wanted to see what Loriel could do.

                And he wondered about the bow he had received from Isran. The Dawnguard founder had said that he thought the draw weight might be a bit much for Loriel. Was it?

                Perhaps it was time to see if Loriel was comfortable going outside.

                He left his breakfast tray on the desk in his room for the maid to gather when she came to clean the room and he walked down to Loriel’s room, lightly tapping on the door before he opened it.

                Laronen was sitting on the floor by the bed, Loriel sitting behind him, his fingers nimbly twisting his brother’s long hair away from his face in a style Ulfric hadn’t seen before. It wasn’t a straight braid like most Nord styles, but rather made by taking small bits of hair and adding it into the braid. And finally, he tied off the end and Laronen looked back to his brother with a wordless smile before they noticed Ulfric’s presence.

                “Jarl Ulfric, what can I do for you?” Laronen spoke up.

                “I was wondering how Loriel might feel about perhaps talking a walk outside. I heard from the Dragonborn that he was quite good with a bow although I have yet to witness it,” Ulfric said, his eyes on Loriel and he rose his brows curiously at him.

                The Altmer bard blinked in surprise and he looked back to his brother.

                Laronen smiled up at him. “Would you like to do that? It’s been a while since you’ve been outside. Why don’t you go see your old friends of the city, let them know you’re still doing okay?” he suggested.

                “Why don’t you bring that new bow of yours as well?” Ulfric added. “The one from Isran?”

                Loriel blinked in surprise from both of their encouragements and he gave a small, shy nod and Laronen grinned.

                “Give him just a moment to get changed, he’ll be right out,” Laronen said and Ulfric nodded, content to wait out in the hall while Loriel got changed into clothes for the cooler weather outside.

                And soon enough, Loriel was stepping out of the room, not only wearing that old familiar outfit of soft leather pants and thick cotton shirt, a leather archer’s cuff pinning his left sleeve down, and wearing those thick bottomed knee-high boots, the box that kept Auri-El’s bow safe and secure on his back. Laronen had even given him a fur-lined jacket in case it was too cold for his brother. The bard seemed to be made of heartier stuff than his ex-Thalmor brother.

                But the sight of Loriel as he was now filled Ulfric with a sense of nostalgia.

                Loriel looked the most like himself since the last time he saw the bard walking out of Windhelm.

                A little thinner, a little more scarred, his hair a little longer, but Loriel looked like _Loriel_ again.

                He looked like the man he had fallen in love with.

                As the two of them stepped out of the front door of the palace, he heard Loriel breathe in deeply, taking in the morning air.

                “Do you mind if we stop at the temple first?” Ulfric asked.

                Loriel only gave a smile and jerked his chin in the direction of the building, and Ulfric gave a grateful smile.

                They weren’t there long, and once Ulfric finished praying, they headed down to the soldier’s training grounds where Ysralad and Galmar already were, observing the progress of the men even before the Jarl unexpectedly arrived with his guest, surprising even the Jarl’s commanders.

                “So you managed to convince the hermit out of his hole,” Galmar said gruffly.

                “With no shortage of _tact_ ,” Ulfric replied, raising his brows at his housecarl before he looked back to Loriel. “Ysralad, why don’t you set him up with an archery target and some long practice arrows,” he suggested to the military commander who didn’t argue.

                “Come on then, bard,” the man said, motioning for Loriel to follow him and with only a silent glance spared to Ulfric, he did.

                Galmar frowned at Loriel’s back, standing out starkly among the rest of the soldiers whose eyes followed after him. He was gold wrapped in clothes of soft creams, tans, and browns, and they were garbed in armor of blues and greys, taller than everyone except for the tops of the ears of two Khajiit brawlers that had managed to be recruited as soldiers. Since the improvements had been made to the Snow Quarter and Ulfric only found positive results, he had eased up the restraints on who was and was not allowed in the city, although that did not mean that the races who made up the Stormcloak army were fairly equal. The population was still predominantly dominated by Nords, just as the population of Skyrim was. A couple Dunmer had joined the army as well and the ones who recognized Loriel grinned at him in greeting with friendly waves and Loriel smiled back widely, showing off his straight white teeth.

                It was the first smile of its kind since Loriel had come back.

                And Ulfric got to witness it.

                Now that he thought about it, last night had been the first comprehensible words he had heard Loriel say as well, wishing the sound of the storm that had muddied the training yard to go away.

                It had gone away.

                And now Loriel was here.

                “Let’s see your bow,” Ysralad requested, observing Loriel as he removed the box from his shoulders and set it down on a table, carefully lifting the lid and he withdrew the bow that looked endlessly more ornate than the rest of the Stormcloak longbows and the military commander’s eye twitched from the fact that it was an _antique_ bow in addition to being an _elven_ one. It looked too clean, too new, and he said nothing.

                If only they knew what that bow supposedly was.

                The Bow of Auri-El.

                An Aedra bow itself.

                “Are you a long distance shooter?” Ysralad asked suspiciously and Loriel made a slight movement. “Let me see how you do with another bow before we go giving you our good arrows.”

                Loriel frowned with a lone raised brow but remained silent.

                By now the Loriel that Ulfric knew would have made at least twenty different snarky comments since they had stepped outside. The soldiers, Galmar, and Ysralad seemed well aware of this as well and were savoring the silence from the elf.

                Handing Loriel a standard hunting bow and some practice arrows, he stepped back and inspected Loriel’s form as he hooked the quiver to the edge of his belt and settled into a familiar stance, one that Ulfric as well as Galmar recognized.

                Altmers had a very particular archery stance in comparison to the races of Men, their posture almost loose yet at the same time it held rigid aspects: their hips and shoulders parallel, back perpendicular to the ground, making them look like they were leaning forward with the bow. And the reason why Ulfric and Galmar had never seen an Altmer with anything shorter than a long bow was obvious as Loriel drew the bow back.

                Their arms were too long.

                Loriel’s reach especially.

                He had the string drawn as far back as his leading shoulder before he ran out of arrow.

                A few soldiers stopped in what they were doing but otherwise, the area did not get quieter.

                But for Loriel, it was as though there was nothing in the rest of the world other than him, the bow in his hands, and the target several yards in front of him. He drew in a slow, even breath, his eyes closing, and when he let it out, his eyes opened.

                The look of focus on Loriel’s face was almost intoxicating.

                And then he released the arrow.

                Loriel gave Ysralad a particular look, watching the man’s jaw drop at the sight of the arrow being sank up to the fletchings in the center of the target and then he showed off by shooting off another arrow, letting the three leads to the Stormcloak army watch as one of the feather fletchings of the arrow fluttered to the ground, stripped from the first arrow’s shaft by the second.

                Then the Altmer lowered his stance and offered the bow back to Ysralad.

                The look on the military commander’s face was worth at least three comments alone.

                Ysralad took the bow in a distracted manner and stalked off to get the longer arrows.

                While the military commander was away, Loriel looked back at Ulfric and Galmar and gave the Bear of Markarth a particular smirk before he looked back to the target, drawing a loop of fabric from his pocket and pulled his hair back away from his face and exposing his long slim neck.

                Ulfric felt his face grow hot and he hoped that his blush wasn’t obvious as he tried not to think about scattering kisses and bites over that throat.

                Ysralad came back with a quiver full of long arrows and Loriel gave him a quirk of brows and a look that could only be labeled as smug before he picked up Auri-El’s bow.

                From there, Ulfric watched as he turned and walked across the training ground, coming to stand in the very center, easily 25 yards at the very least, before he got into his stance and Galmar and Ysralad made sure no one blundered into Loriel’s firing range as they watched.

                He didn’t draw the bow just yet, taking slow, even breaths before he lifted the bow.

                A few more even breaths and he slowly drew the bow.

                Ulfric could almost hear the strain the string was under, watching Loriel’s expression become concentrated, and he held the bow at the ready for a long time, the notch of the arrow drawn all the way back to his lips. And then.

                He released.

                It was like hearing lightning, the arrow zipping through the air and sinking into the target so hard and so fast that the arrow actually went _through_ the target, the fletchings ripped off and clinging where they had been stripped, and _shattered_ against the stone wall behind it.

                “ _Talos_ …” Ulfric breathed in shock.

                Loriel lowered the bow, wincing and he flexed his fingers before approaching the target to see how he did.

                Ulfric approached as well.

                His aim had been too high, the fletchings half lost in the target at the outward most ring, but there was nothing left of the arrow that was salvageable.

                Ulfric could only _imagine_ how deadly Loriel would be once he mastered the bow’s draw weight…

                What a _weapon_ Isran had given Loriel.

                Looking to Loriel, his eyes dropped down to the Mer’s fingers. Just drawing the bow once had left his fingers raw from the weight of the string.

                “Still want to practice with the bow?” Ulfric asked.

                Loriel made a circle with his index finger in the air.

                “Tomorrow?”

                He nodded.

                Sounded like a plan. The more Loriel practiced perfect form with the bow, the better he would get with handling the draw weight. Once he was used to the draw weight, he would be able to focus on accuracy.

                Ulfric looked to Galmar and Ysralad who were just as flabbergast as Ulfric felt, picking up shards of the arrow.

                There wasn’t even a practice arrowhead _left_ to practice _with_.

                Loriel nudged Ulfric and tilted his head.

                _Ready to go?_ He seemed to be asking.

                Ulfric drew in a breath and nodded, watching Loriel offer Ysralad the quiver of arrows before packing up the bow and shouldering it. Then, he watched Loriel give him a twist of a smile, maybe a smirk, and they walked away from the training ground, no doubt by evening the barracks would be entirely abuzz with stories about that one shattered arrow.

                As they neared the great door to the Palace of the Kings, Ulfric reached out to push it open.

                And a golden hand beat him to the door.

                Startled, Ulfric looked over his shoulder to the Altmer and their eyes met.

                Calm amber to surprised sea blue.

                Loriel smiled.

                “Royalty before common-folk.”

                His voice was quiet.

                Cracked from lack of use.

                Playful.

                And teasing.

                His heart seized in his chest.

                Loriel was coming back.

                _His_ Loriel was coming back.


	21. Chapter Twenty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just FYI, this is also posted on my Fanfiction account too. Same name, same story. Enjoy. And don't forget to comment please.

                Laronen was absolutely beside himself when he found out that Loriel was talking again that the poor elf started sobbing, catching both the bard and the Jarl of Windhelm by surprise. _His_ elf gave him an awkward smile before he went to sooth the edges of his mirror’s emotions and left the Bear of Markarth to go about his business for the rest of the day.

                It had been well over a month since Loriel’s rescue, and the peace treaty had been in effect for what was approaching three months. Tullius was taking advantage of this time to have shipments of weapons come up from Cyrodiil by the way of Falkreath and the western edge of Whiterun. His men had been ravaged by the dragon attacks the worst even with Ulfric withholding the bulk of his men from the fighting and in the wake of the defeat of Alduin, sightings of those flying lizards was growing rare.

                Not gone entirely but rare.

                There was a distinct line though now between the dragons who had pledged themselves to Arson’s memory and those who pledged allegiance only to themselves, evidence shown by the way that most of the existing dragon attacks on the road were being thwarted not by brave men and women of the holds or even the Blades, but rather by other dragons.

                Three days after Loriel’s first words, the Shouts of two dragons were carried on the wind from the south-west of the city. It had been enough to set off a panic attack in Loriel, and the man actually resorted to hiding himself away in the Temple of Talos before Ulfric finally found the Mer and was able to get him to calm down. Ysrarald was the one to catch up to the two of them after they left the temple, Loriel’s forgotten bow in his hand.

                There was a reason Ysrarald was Ulfric’s military commander, and it was because he understood more than strategy and military power. It was because he understood soldiers.

                He understood Legionnaire’s disease in soldiers as well.

                He understood what Loriel was going through as well as Ulfric did.

                And he was patient with the bard.

                He was still recovering after all.

                The next day, the guitar came.

                In the odd hours of the mornings that came after, Ulfric would wake to the sound of strummed metal strings and elegant playing of unfamiliar songs, the notes put together in ways that were so unlike every possible way he had heard a lute be played, the round mellow sounds filling the air of the halls and lulling the Jarl back to sleep.

                On the fourth night, Ulfric roused to the sound of Loriel’s music. Sleepily smiling against his pillow, he listened.

                And then heard it stop abruptly.

                The halt made Ulfric raise a brow in curiosity before the music started again.

                An odd few notes.

                And then stop again.

                It was confusing as Ulfric listened, and almost maddening as Loriel continued about this method of whatever it was for at least an hour before Ulfric’s curiosity grew to be too great and he sighed before swatting the blankets off of himself and he sat up, rubbing his face before he pulled on clothes and plodded down the stairs to where the music had restarted. One of the guards was nodding along to the segment Loriel was playing before it abruptly stopped and the guard seemed about as amused as Ulfric was.

                Ulfric gave a small nod to the guard before he heard the music start again. He didn’t knock, Loriel wouldn’t have heard it anyway. He just stepped inside, quietly closing the door behind him.

                Laronen was sleeping fitfully among the blankets of the bed, Baby curled up at his shoulder in an equal state of rest.

                And Loriel was in the chair by the desk.

                A piece of charcoal was pressed hard between his lips, his head bowed over the darkly stained wood of his guitar, hair tied away from his face and off his neck, bare from the waist up except for a twist of metal wrapping around his upper arm that stood out darkly against the shiny gold skin of his burn, dark lightning climbing over his skin up his throat, down his unburnt arm, across his stomach and side and back, and disappearing below the hem of his pants, candles lit on the desk and a piece of parchment pinned down on the wood of the desk. Loriel got a few measures further before he tilted his head and the next few notes were awkwardly spaced, pleasant, and he repeated them more fluidly and nodded to himself before he stopped and pulled the charcoal from his lips to jot down his thoughts.

                Ulfric recognized what this was.

                This was Loriel in his natural state.

                A bard.

                Creating.

                And for a moment, all he could do was stare, hoping to burn in that sight into his memory.

                Loriel was about to stick the charcoal back into his mouth before he noticed the change in the room and he looked up, wide eyed and curious and vaguely tired, a smudge of color from the utensil already at home at the corner of his mouth.

                “Good morning,” Ulfric greeted.

                “Did I wake you?” Loriel asked.

                “I was already awake,” he lied.

                The answer seemed to be a good one and Loriel put the charcoal down on the desk.

                “Writing a new song?”

                He nodded. “The chorus has been teasing me for a while now.”

                Ulfric gave a quiet nod as he tapped a spare chair and Loriel smiled, letting him pull the chair over and sit down with him.

                Loriel licked his lips as he gazed over his notes, Ulfric looking at them too but whatever was written was obviously in bard’s language because all it was to Ulfric was a bunch of strange symbols and letters that looked to be in no particular order, none going any farther down the alphabet than G.

                “This is a foreign language to me,” Ulfric admitted.

                “Old Lady Six-Fingers would agree with you, my drafting notations are always a mess,” Loriel agreed.

                Inge Six-Fingers, the Dean of Lutes, Ulfric vaguely recalled.

                At the title of the page, Ulfric noticed there was only one word written.

                **_Closer_**

                Ulfric gazed back to Loriel’s face as he tapped a spot on the page before plucking the cords.

                Divines he was beautiful in this light.

                His eyelashes looked incredibly long, trembling and fine, irises almost glowing gold in the candle light, and he watched the way a muscle in Loriel’s jaw shifted before that tongue peeked out past his lips and his teeth dragged over his lower lip thoughtfully.

                Beautiful.

                And Ulfric didn’t deserve him.

                “How can you stand to be near me after all I’ve put you through?”

                The words made Loriel’s hand slip on his guitar and the responding notes were hideous as the bard tore his gaze away from his notes and looked right at him, caught off guard.

                For a long moment, there was nothing that Loriel could come up with in response.

                Then, a gentle frown made itself at home on his lips.

                His eyes settled on Ulfric’s, gentle and calm and sad. Amber to his sea. Fire to water.

                “Because after everything you’ve done for me, I should have trusted you,” he said softly. “I was scared, and ashamed, and I should have told you. The moment I realized who she was to you, I should have told you. I’m sorry, Ulfric.”

                His voice was almost pleading.

                He didn’t need to sound like that.

                “I forgave you a long time ago.”

                Loriel gave a small smile and he gazed down at his guitar.

                “Thank you,” he whispered.

                “Do you forgive me? For not giving you a chance to explain?”

                There was a small laugh.

                “I forgave you a long time ago.”

                The expression that went with those words made Ulfric fall in love all over again, and for a moment, the two of them just sat in the peaceful quiet together, smiling at each other.

                From the bed, there was a quiet groan and Laronen rolled over in his sleep, making them both look to him before Loriel gave a quiet laugh and rubbed his head.

                “I should probably stop where I’m at now and try to get some more sleep,” he admitted.

                “You should,” Ulfric agreed.

                “You should too,” Loriel pointed out, removing the strap from his guitar around his shoulders and he put it aside before rolling up his notes and sticking them where Baby wouldn’t have a chance to chew on them.

                Ulfric’s eyes traveled over Loriel’s back as it was exposed to him, the lash scars no more than vaguely discolorations slight impressions in his skin although the shine from the brand would never truly go away from how deep the impression was, lightning creeping along one side of his ribs. The hook shaped scar above his hip was too old to ever get any lighter as well. The Jarl was glad that Laronen was able to do so much for his brother’s wounds.

                And he wondered if perhaps he should try to get the rest of the Stormcloaks used to Loriel’s ex-Thalmor brother. He would be a useful healer since there was no formal one in Windhelm. But that was a thought to entertain at a later time.

                The Jarl of Windhelm stood and headed for the door before he felt Loriel catch his sleeve and he looked back.

                Loriel was looking at him with those eyes before they dropped down, Ulfric feeling those warm, slim, callused fingers against his hand and turning his palm up, something being pressed into his hand and Loriel closed his fingers around the object. “I want you to have this. It’s from Solstheim,” Loriel told him and gave Ulfric an awkward smile.

                Ulfric swallowed and gave a small smile.

                “Thank you.”

                Loriel nodded.

                “Good night, Ulfric.”

                “Good night, Loriel.”

                Ulfric didn’t look down at the gift until he was back in the security of his room, his back against the door and he uncurled his fingers.

                In the palm of his hand was that twisted metal cuff Loriel had been wearing as an armband, worn bronze, buffered and scratched with age but still pretty. The way it was told of the difference between the sizes of the two of them, this thing that would never be able to slide any higher than the middle of his forearm as it was had been a snug fit on Loriel’s upper arm.

                He remembered having seen it once before in passing, back at Loriel’s room in Candlehearth Hall.

                This was really the first physical gift Ulfric had ever received from the bard.

                And carefully, he slid it onto his wrist.

                And smiled.

                Laying back down on his bed, he sighed, the warm circlet of metal comfortable about his wrist, and he gazed up at the ceiling.

                Loriel forgave him.

                Loriel’s forgiveness was the best gift yet.

                And Ulfric fell back to sleep in the silence, not waking again until the sun was creeping into his room from the high windows.

                He was certain he had dreamed but all he could remember was what had happened in the night.

                How lovely Loriel looked in the candlelight of that room, the way he looked at him, the way he smiled, and those words.

                _I forgave you a long time ago_.

                And he stretched out on his bed before lifting his hand to gaze at the twist of metal that was an armband on Loriel but a bracelet on him. Skinny elf arms.

                Ulfric chuckled to himself and closed his eyes, breathing deeply.

                Honestly, he couldn’t think of any way last night could have gone any better.

                The only thing that could have possibly improved it would have been a kiss but Ulfric wasn’t going to give himself hope in that yet. He might have Loriel’s forgiveness but that still didn’t mean he deserved the elf.

                For now, the only thing he could have was his thoughts.

                And in the quiet of the morning, he would.

                He let his mind wander over the moments of the night before.

                Loriel looking up at him with that smudge of charcoal at the corner of his mouth that would have been excuse enough for Ulfric to reach out and brush away back then but he hadn’t been brave enough. But in his mind now, he was brave enough. He reached out in his imagination and cradled his elf’s jaw in his hand, thumb stroking at the pigment at the edge of his lips.

                He allowed his mind’s eye to wander over the elf’s lips and he remembered the way the muscle in his jaw shifted before the pink of his tongue peeked out, grazing over his lips before his teeth dragged over his lower lip. Back then, he had been looking over his musical notations but in his mind now, he was looking down at Ulfric with those eyes like fire and gold.

                In his imagination, he traced his free hand up that toned arm, fingertips barely brushing over the skin and watching the elf’s breath quicken in anticipation and he felt the twist of metal around Loriel’s arm.

                In his thoughts, Loriel was the one who leaned down first, their noses almost brushing before Ulfric’s thoughts were whisked away like smoke with a loud _BANG_ coming from beyond his door and down the stairs.

                Oblivion be _damned_ …

                Ulfric sat up with a deep frown on his lips.

                He would have to pick up where he left off later and he sighed heavily as he got up and dressed himself.

                The cause of the interrupting sound had actually been caused by a servant getting startled by Baby, the cat dashing underfoot, causing the servant to unintentionally slam back into one of the guards into the door of the room across the hall, stunning both of them. Loriel and Laronen were both standing at their door, Laronen looking pale and Ulfric recognized why when he saw the servant.

                Her head was bleeding from cracking it against the guard’s helmet.

                Ulfric let out a soft breath and he reached out to tug the servant to her feet.

                “Both of you, in,” he told the servant and the guard, pointing to Loriel’s room and Loriel scampered away from the door to pull up a pair of chairs. And once the servant was sitting, the other guards watched as Laronen stood behind her and parted her hair to see where the split skin was.

                Laronen pursed his lips before Loriel brought over a bowl full of water from the pitcher of water they kept by the bed and Laronen thanked his brother before cleaning the wound while the guard took off his helmet. The man looked fine but Ulfric still wanted Laronen to check just in case. The fall was something to be concerned about.

                Laronen apologized every time the servant winced under his touch before he sighed. “That’s good enough,” he murmured before he lightly rested his hand over the injured area and his palm began to glow brightly.

                It only took a few long moments before he stopped and smiled.

                “There. How do you feel?” he asked the woman and she looked up at him in surprise.

                “The pain, it’s gone,” she said in astonishment and Laronen smiled kindly.

                “I’m sorry about my brother’s cat,” he said and gave Loriel a look, the Mer giving a sheepish smile and he apologized as well.

                Ulfric smiled a little to himself.

                Well, it seemed the Divines had liked his idea from last night and decided to give it a little push for the Jarl.

                The Bear of Markarth told the servant to take rest of the day off to rest, wash the blood out of her hair, and she hurried to do as she was bid, perhaps more out of being mortified at having _blood_ in her hair rather than because she needed the breather. While he was telling her that, Laronen was making sure the soldier was fine.

                Nothing more than a bit of an ache in his shoulders from hitting the door but Laronen still used a bit of healing magic just in case.

                By the afternoon, there was scatters of murmurs among the guards about the Altmer bard’s twin brother, skinnier, more soft spoken, shier with a smile, who was astonishingly good at restoration magic.

                And that evening, Ulfric sat down with Laronen and Loriel to discuss what to do for their situation.

                Laronen liked the idea of being of some active help in Windhelm even if he couldn’t leave the palace, but he was concerned that if Elenwen found out the details of his livings that it would look suspicious. Loriel was opposed to the idea but it was a two against one vote for Laronen to be moved into his own room, closer to the prisons. With Loriel recovering well, Laronen didn’t think Loriel needed him so actively and his brother could always visit.

                Loriel was upset but understood the reasons and submitted and by the next day at noon, the secondary storage room by the barracks had been cleaned out and furnished modestly for the healer.

                Laronen would be moved into the room the following morning.

                And Loriel promised to take his meals with his brother.

                They would give it two days before Ulfric would start having people who needed healing to see Laronen, let the guards get used to the new location as well as the new orders: two guards posted outside his door at all times and unless the person was Loriel, Ulfric, Galmar, or Ysrarald, all visitors must have a guard with them in Laronen’s presence.

                Guards were to be firm with Laronen but not cruel.

                Laronen’s presence in Windhelm was no longer going to be a secret.

                Let Elenwen find out.

                She couldn’t touch them where they were. Elenwen’s orders from the Aldmeri Dominion were not to interfere with the civil war and going after Ulfric or Loriel directly would be a direct violation of those orders. Even trying to have someone rescue Laronen would be a violation of them.

                And Elenwen was nothing if not obedient to her orders.

                What Ulfric and Laronen agreed upon was nothing more than rubbing the fact in her face, a fact that as soon as the Elenwen’s superiors found out, which would easily take a minimum of a month, Laronen would be considered a lost cause that the Aldmeri Dominion would order the abandonment of, if not the assassination of.

                This particular fact was kept secret from Loriel though.

                Ulfric wanted to back out immediately.

                “Absolutely not. I’m not letting Loriel lose you.”

                Laronen smiled as he sat on the edge of his small, lonely bed. “I knew what I was getting myself into when I agreed to help your Dragonborn get an edge on the Dominion. I knew just the same as Loriel knew when he decided to set the Hall of Records on fire,” he told Ulfric.

                He shook his head, “Loriel will _lose_ you, Laronen. You almost lost him once in the last three months, imagine how he will feel if he _actually_ loses you,” he insisted.

                “He doesn’t need me, Jarl Ulfric. He has you.”

                The words made Ulfric recoil in surprise and he saw the soft smile.

                “You said I had no idea how much my brother means to you but I’ve seen the way you look at him. If there was only one way for me to trust anyone with Loriel, it would be the way you look at him. I trust you with him. He’ll be alright.”

                And when he left Laronen’s room, he left with his heart feeling simultaneously heavy and light all at once.

                Someone knew how in love he was with Loriel.

                But at the same time, that someone was willing to die.

                And that night after he closed his door, he reached into the chest at the foot of his bed and took out the Amulet of Arkay.

                And when he prayed, he asked Arson what he should do.

                Because he just didn’t know what to do.


	22. Chapter Twenty-One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just FYI, this is also posted on my Fanfiction account too. Same name, same story. Enjoy. And don't forget to comment please.

                After four days of Laronen’s services being opened to the public, Ulfric rubbed his face over his pile of paperwork.

                Yesterday he had sent out the order for the soldiers at the Stormcloak camp in the Rift to take back the hold from the Imperials and in his mind, he could already feel the general disapproval that he was no doubt receiving from Arson all the way in Sovngarde. Maven was not going to be happy with the loss of her position, although Laila Law-Giver would be glad to no longer be stuck in the Palace of the Kings and return to her home and to her family.

                Her sons were still in Riften, the younger one considered an ally to the Imperials, and despite the fact that he was against the Stormcloaks, Ulfric could not find it in his heart to hold it against him.

                The boy had chosen a side, just as they all must choose a side.

                Some people didn’t believe his cause was a just one.

                So be it.

                There was still the worry that was looming over Ulfric’s head about his ex-Thalmor guest.

                Loriel seemed oblivious that the Thalmor might make an effort to go after his brother, to silence him before he could reveal any secrets, but Laronen had already confirmed that everything he possibly could tell Ulfric was in the thick binding he had given the Jarl that was hidden away with only Ysrarald, Galmar, and Ulfric himself aware of the location.

                Ulfric needed a distraction.

                So he went to the training yard to observe his soldiers.

                Loriel was among them.

                Calm as a mild summer day, he was at the far corner of the yard where Ysrarald had set him up so that no one would get shot by blundering into his line of fire, a wall at his back, a wall at his shoulder, and a wall behind his target at the other end of the yard. A large sheet of parchment had been pinned to the target so they could keep track of his accuracy, which was also making improvements.

                As he notched the new arrow, Ulfric’s eyes shifted to behind the target where the remains of dozens of other arrows laid shattered and splintered in defeat. Increasing his distance had improved the chances of the arrows surviving a little better but not by much, not at that velocity against a stone wall, not even with a target to slow it down.

                Since his brother had moved out of the room, Loriel had begun to spend more time at the training yard.

                A hundred arrows might not seem like much to an accomplished archer but Loriel was fighting against the draw with every pull and the only thing saving his hands was the heavy glove that guarded the crook of his hand against the bow itself and the draw-tab that protected his fingertips that would without a doubt have begun to bleed without it.

                One-hundred was his goal to shoot every day but he had yet to manage that feat, his arms and shoulders not strong enough to draw the bow-string back that many times, but every day he tried to beat his accomplishments from the day before.

                He was getting better.

                Stronger.

                Ulfric watched as Loriel drew in a slow breath and steadied his arm with the bow before very carefully pulling back the string until his fingers and the string itself touched his lips.

                He held the posture for a very long time and Ulfric watched as a muscle in his jaw shifted, clenching and relaxing, his skin shining in the sun with sweat. He drew in a deep breath. His jaw clenched again. And then, he released.

                zz-pf- _CRACK!_

                All instantaneously.

                The arrow ceased to exist as it once was.

                Loriel lowered the bow and winced as he slung the bow across his back, marking that he was done for the day.

                He only stopped when he was concerned that continuing would only end in injury.

                Loriel stepped across the yard towards the target so he could check how his paper target had held up, massaging his elbow tenderly and Ulfric watched him smile, pleased with the results as he untacked the parchment to roll up and tuck away to add to his collection that detailed his progress with the Aedric Bow of Loriel’s particular god.

                He was proud of his progress.

                Ulfric was proud of his progress too.

                More than just with the archery and the bow, but coming so far since he was reclaimed from the Thalmor.

                He let out a heavy breath, slow and thoughtful before he heard Ysrarald call out to Loriel from across the yard, motioning him to come over.

                Letting his eyes shift past his military commander told him why and he felt his heart drop in his chest.

                Just as suddenly and without warning as the first time, Isran had come to visit.

                This time, he had brought two more with him: a Nord woman and a Breton man.

                As soon as Loriel saw these two people that accompanied Isran, Ulfric watched his body language change and his strides became longer in his excitement as he hurried over to them and embraced the woman with enough strength to lift her off the ground, her dangling feet swaying before Loriel put her down and he looked to the other male and they smiled and spoke with each other.

                Those two must be friends he had made back when he had been a member of the Dawnguard.

                A mild smile came to his lips.

                He hadn’t seen Loriel so happy to actually pick someone up off the ground while hugging them.

                It was nice.

                He was content just observing until he heard someone say his name and he turned to an out of breath courier.

                “I have a delivery for you, sir,” the courier said, a sealed letter in his hand.

                He thanked the courier and gave him a tip for his work before he turned the letter over in his hands and frowned as he recognized the seal impressed into the wax.

                Frowning deeply, he left the training yard and as he entered the Palace of the Kings, he got Galmar’s attention, immediately heading for the war room. There was anxiousness in the air between them as Ulfric drew his dagger through the seal of Jarl Balgruuf the Greater of Whiterun and carefully spread the parchment so they could both read.

                And Ulfric let out a startled breath at the words.

                Arson always found ways to surprise him, even from beyond the grave.

                His last conversation with Balgruuf, before he had taken to the back of a dragon for his last quest, had been about the war. It had been about what could save Whiterun ultimately, about what could save the city and the hold and one day perhaps Skyrim as well. He had settled the idea of coming to a truce with Ulfric into the Jarl’s mind, and Balgruuf was willing to meet with Ulfric in secret to see if they could come to a quiet agreement in the situation of the Civil War.

                The suggested date was in two days, at Guldun Rock, a giant’s establishment that would no doubt be cleared out just before the meeting under the disguise of a regular patrol wiping out a problem. The location was right on the edge of both of their holds, putting them both in comfort. It would happen in the early hours of the morning so that traveling to the location would be missed under the cover of darkness and should the meeting not take terribly long, they could both return to their cities before dawn.

                Balgruuf was not willing to openly side with anyone in the war, maintaining a neutral face in the eyes of the Imperials, but the secret allegiance to the Stormcloak side would be of benefit to Ulfric.

                This was good news.

                Incredibly good news.

                Balgruuf and Ulfric had been at odds with each other ever since they were boys and as young men, they had almost come to blows with each other on the 7000 steps, the then future Jarl of Whiterun on his first pilgrimage up there and Ulfric a potential future Greybeard, all started by a petty argument over whose hold held more power in Skyrim.

                With the civil war, Ulfric had reached out to Balgruuf first, willing to put aside childish squabbles for the sake of the country, and all because of a scavenging savior of the country did the Jarl of the central hold yield.

                Two days.

                Less than that, actually.

                Tomorrow at dusk he would leave his hold with two of his most trusted commanders and a small entourage of guards and he would have words with Balgruuf the Greater.

                The short-notice of it would keep both of them safe.

                “I think this calls for a drink,” Galmar said with a grin.

                Ulfric agreed to the drink but he didn’t think this was something to be celebrated, not until after the meeting and while Galmar went to go get the mead, the Jarl went to tuck the letter away with the Thalmor documents, returning in time to see his housecarl returning from the storeroom with a couple bottles of Black-Briar Reserve in his hands.

                Popping the cork, the two men tapped their bottles briefly before taking a drink.

                Galmar was feeling merry from the news and it was an almost infectious feeling as they spoke briefly about what Balgruuf might want from the meeting.

                It would have been a lot more than brief if Ysrarald hadn’t stumbled into the war room, his face looking washed.

                “What’s wrong with you?” Galmar asked.

                “I have learned far more about the bard than I ever wanted to know in less than thirty seconds,” Ysrarald said distantly, snatching up one of the mead bottles and yanking the cork, downing almost half of the contents without taking a breath.

                Galmar and Ulfric shared a look before Galmar scoffed, “Would you have preferred to learn it more slowly?”

                “I would have _preferred_ to not know how well _anyone_ responds to being restrained who isn’t my own intimate partner, Galmar!”

                Ulfric felt his face grow hot from Ysrarald’s words and he took another drink from his bottle, looking away.

                Now that was a bit of information to tuck away for later.

                Galmar snickered at how positively mortified the military captain sounded and gave a sly glance at the blond, “Sounds like a personal problem then, although I’m certain Ulfric would be happy to hear details.”

                The Jarl in question inhaled his mead in surprise.

                “Oh _Talos_ ,” Ysrarald groaned and hid his face in his hands.

                Choking and sputtering, he glared at his housecarl weakly who seemed smug.

                This was probably some form of payback, he was sure.

                “You’re awful,” Ulfric wheezed as he rubbed his throat.

                Galmar chuckled and shook his head, “I saw an opening and I took it. You would do the same.”

                Well the next time he saw one, he’d repay the favor in kind, Ulfric assured himself and shook his head in exasperation before he walked away from his two commanders and out of the palace.

                He needed to get away from Galmar before his housecarl felt like taking another jab.

                He’d get him for that.

                One of these days.

                Ulfric’s face still felt hot as he headed down to the docks, see if those shipment that had been ordered came in yet. It was another distraction for the day and as he spoke with the captain, he was pleased to hear the case had arrived. Despite Skyrim’s civil war, the East Empire Trading Company didn’t seem to care about bringing in traded goods as long as the prices were still paid, which was of benefit to Ulfric. Knowing the Empire overlooked all shipments to Windhelm though meant that the Jarl had to be more selective in what he approved and did not approve for outgoing orders for incoming shipments. No weapons especially, not that he would, but it also meant that anyone who put in an order for weapons was politely requested to have them shipped to Solitude instead, which meant a lack of business for Windhelm by those means.

                The case of vintage brandy would be delivered to the palace later in the morning and Ulfric entertained the idea of inviting Loriel to share a bottle with him after he returned from his dealings with Balgruuf.

                Perhaps he could entice a kiss out of Loriel then, with nothing but alcohol to really blame. Sanguine be damned, he could entertain the thought. He was hardly the worst person Loriel could possibly wake up beside in all of Tamriel after all.

                He ignored the sensation of his face growing warm again with that particular thought as he headed back into the city, speak with his people and occasionally catch glimpses of Loriel and the three members of the Dawnguard. The last time he saw them, they were walking into Candlehearth Hall, the woman speaking in vivid detail about some place, Loriel’s expression completely in awe as he listened.

                “Next time I come to visit, I’ll take you there,” she promised the Altmer before the door closed between the group and the Jarl.

                Curious but not curious enough to stray from his path, Ulfric returned to the palace to eat his evening meal while the servants prepared the water for his bath. The ache in his shoulder had been particularly bad despite his lack of strenuous activity and he cursed himself for being old.

                Not as old as Loriel, but older than the Altmer even looked.

                A 94 year old Altmer who looked like he was in his early 30’s and yet there was Ulfric and he was nearing 50 and feeling every bit of it and more.

                He would likely die of old age before he saw Loriel as an old Mer, he realized and he frowned as he undressed and sank himself into the steaming bathtub. It wasn’t quite hot enough to hurt but it was hot enough that he knew it would force his muscles to relax and unwind. If he had someone who could give him a good massage as well, he would have been all set.

                He wondered how good Loriel was at giving massages.

                It would be nice, feeling those hands turn his aches into relief.

                Those hands were growing strong with the practice of the bow, especially the fingers of his right hand.

                He wondered…

                And as he wondered, he rested his head back against the rim of the tub and allowed himself to imagine as well.

                As he imagined those long, clever fingers spreading over his shoulders, thumbs digging into the hard knots that sat beneath the skin, neglected and ignored for too long, he wondered if the Altmer might hesitate over the sight of the worst of his scars, wondered if those fingers would trace over the impressions and raises in his flesh that had been created over years of battling, scars that had come before the Great War, scars that had come during the Great War, scars that came from his time with the Thalmor, and scars that had come after the Great War.

                His body was littered with them.

                He imagined Loriel’s lips tenderly pressing to his shoulder where branches of lightning crept up his chest and arm, and he imagined those slim yet powerful arms wrapping about him.

                Those arms just holding onto him.

                Embracing him.

                He has been with men and women after the war, indulging in the push and pull warfare to satisfy carnal needs, and for many who had not witnessed war, who did not know true pain as he had, they had given him the impression that all they saw was his scars. But Loriel…

                Loriel knew that pain.

                He understood suffering.

                Ulfric knew the elf well enough to assume that if Loriel saw him bare before him, that he would still see _him_ instead of just his scars.

                To imagine Loriel looking at him the way they had when his own body was now a collage of long-recovered wounds was unthinkable.

                It was at this point that Ulfric could begin to feel his own flesh starting to respond to his thoughts, his imagination less tender and more what he had needed for the sake of relief as the Loriel in his thoughts nuzzled his nose against his shoulder, his breath warm as Ulfric turned around in the Altmer’s arms and dragged the tall Mer down into a much needed kiss.

                _Responds to being restrained_ , he remembered Ysrarald’s words.

                And he groaned as the image changed before his eyes, his fingers curling about himself beneath the water.

                Loriel the sweet and tender was replaced by Loriel the needy, face down against his bed, ass up in the air, his wrists and elbows secured for Ulfric’s unquestioned control.

                Oh _Talos_ what a _view_ …

                He imagined Loriel’s voice, soft gasps and moans, his body shuddering in response to his touch, eager hands caressing over those scars before circling and parting the firm globes for the real prize waiting to receive him.

                In reality, he would have drank the sight in but in his mind, he didn’t wait. He could appreciate what was in front of him when it was really there. This now was for relief as he circled his thumb over the head and quickened his strokes.

                What sort of sounds could he pull from Loriel’s throat?

                Was he noisy in sex or quiet?

                How flexible was he?

                How did he prefer to be fucked?

                Did he respond best to slow and thorough sex or something harder, rough?

                _Gods_ he hoped Loriel liked to use his voice in the bedroom as much as he had liked to use his voice in a tavern.

                In his mind, Loriel begged, wanting Ulfric anyway that he could, wanting his Jarl to please himself with that golden body, and he did, ruining that voice in his imagination as he fucked him hard, each slap of skin against skin bringing the two of them closer to the edge.

                What really did him in though was imagining _his_ bard screaming _his_ name as he orgasmed, his hips jerking into his fist once, twice, and then relief uncoiled itself.

                Breathing deeply, he opened his eyes and relaxed briefly before getting out and mixing the contents of the tub with his hand to hide the evidence.

                No one needed to know that.

                And quietly, he dried, dressed, and retreated to his room for a fitful night’s sleep, dreaming of nothing more than Loriel laid out like a meal on his bed, one that only he could indulge in and devour.

                After waking and bringing himself relief again, Ulfric dressed, meditated, and went down into the main hall for breakfast and seeing the figure he had imagined heading up from the kitchens to go have breakfast with his brother, two steaming plates in his hands.

                Even with his friends coming to visit, Loriel had yet to forget about his promise to his brother.

                A small smile found its way to his lips as he sat down to eat, absently watching as Laronen’s first customer of the day came into the palace and headed for the room, a basket in Nilsine Shatter-Shield’s hand.

                She had been in with her mother two days ago over a bad cough Tova had, accompanying her mother in her father’s stead while the man was down at the docks, overseeing the Argonians.

                It was curious to see her come back so soon, and this time on her own.

                Hm.

                He would ask Laronen about it later.

                Ulfric had finished his plate before he saw Nilsine emerge from the room again, her basket empty and she gave a polite smile to the Jarl as she went, her cheeks dusted with pink, and when before he even knocked, he could hear the smoke-throat voice of Laronen.

                “You’re a bastard.”

                “I thought we already established this,” came Loriel’s pleased banter in reply, sounding smug.

                “I’m curious, what makes the bard a bastard?” Ulfric mused aloud as he entered without knocking.

                Loriel was grinning as mischievously and proud as his cat while Laronen sank his face into his hands, his ears going red with embarrassment, “Lars has a _crush_ ~” the bard said in a sing-song voice.

                “I do _not_ have a crush!”

                That was the first time he had seen Laronen be even remotely violent and it was in the form of a half-hearted toss of a book at his brother who easily avoided the trajectory as he impishly danced away and over to Ulfric, knowing he would be safer from any more thrown items by being closer to the Jarl and the two of them shared an amused glance at each other.

                “Maybe I should write a little note to Nilsine, invite her to have dinner with you~”

                “Lore!”

                And he cackled.

                More than they were at face-value, the behavior reminded Ulfric that they were indeed brothers.

                “How was your visit with your friends?” Ulfric asked Loriel, changing the topic to give the healer a little relief.

                He grinned brightly, “Wonderful. It’s been so long since I last saw Serana and Celann. I’ve missed out on a lot of Dawnguard adventures in my absence, or so I’ve been told.”

                “Hopefully you’ve only missed out on adventures that would have left you worse for wear.”

                “Hopefully,” Loriel agreed, “Would you like to properly meet them? They’re not leaving until tonight.”

                It would be good to know who Loriel’s friends were as well as see if he could make some potential allies among them, ignoring the traitorous fact of Isran being an old lover of the bard he was in love with.

                “Of course,” he agreed.

                After teasing his brother a little bit longer, Loriel placed a noisy kiss on the top of his head and gave a playful tug at Laronen’s braid before the bard and the Jarl left, leaving the Palace of the Kings to head down to Candlehearth Hall.

                During the walk, Loriel explained to Ulfric a bit about his two friends, clarifying that Celann was in fact the same Celann from the Vigilants he had encountered 30 years before, and that Serana was in fact the daughter of the vampire lord the Dawnguard had seeked to stop.

                Isran was still Isran, unfortunately.

                “Have there been any more invites to rejoin the Dawnguard?” Ulfric inquired.

                “I think I made my point to Isran that chances of me rejoining are about as likely as me getting back into bed with him. I’m sure Serana and Celann would appreciate my company as a buffer against Isran but I’m perfectly at home where I am now and I don’t plan on changing that for a very long time.”

                The words caught Ulfric by surprise, making his heart quicken in his chest.

                “So Windhelm is home to you?”

                His hand pressed against the door of Candlehearth Hall’s second level as he gazed to the Jarl with those calm, amber eyes, a soft smile on those thin lips.

                “If Skyrim is the country that I love, it is the city of Windhelm that houses my heart and soul.”

                Ulfric felt breathless as he followed Loriel inside, already finding Celann eating his breakfast while Serana was drinking something from a flask, assumedly blood to sustain herself.

                “Hey,” Loriel greeted with a wiry grin, “Is the master-grouch still sleeping?”

                Celann grinned and Serana wore an amused smile. “No, he went to the training yard, see how impressive the soldiers really are,” the Breton said, “Who is your friend?” he added with a nod to Ulfric.

                “That sounds dangerous. Hope he doesn’t decide to spar with anyone,” Loriel said, rolling his eyes as he picked up a chair and dragged it over, pulling out the third chair already at the table for Ulfric, “Celann, Serana, this is the best part about the city of Windhelm, Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak. Ulfric, these two are the best parts of the Dawnguard, Celann and Serana,” he introduced the two of them.

                Ulfric extended a hand and Celann gave a firm shake, Serana’s grip light but he could feel the tightness of her muscles through his glove and the way her eyes glowed was the most intriguing thing.

                “It’s a pleasure to meet good people of Loriel’s life,” he stated.

                “Thank you for taking care of him for us. Lovira can be a bit hard to handle,” Celann said and gave Loriel a playful look, “But he’s usually worth it.”

                Loriel rolled his eyes with a huff, his long arms crossing over his chest as his cheeks turned red as Serana looked on in amusement.

                “I would have to agree,” Ulfric said, glancing to the Mer, “His presence has caused a lot of change in Windhelm and it has only been for the better. I’m proud to have him as a resident of my city,” and felt pleased with himself as the blush spread over Loriel’s face.

                The Jarl didn’t get an opportunity to talk to Loriel and his friends for very long though. 

                “Ulfric.”

                Looking up, he found a frowning Galmar standing not far away.

                “We have a problem,” he said, his tone full of news and it made Ulfric frown.

                “You’ll have to excuse me,” he said to Loriel, Serana, and Celann as he stood to go tend to matters with his housecarl.

                “What is it?” he asked as the two of them walked out, the Jarl immediately being lead towards the docks as Galmar explained that a ship had been sank within view of the docks. Guards had been sent out to the closest edge of land to the ship.

                Ulfric cursed and he snatched the arm of a guard, “Go get the healer from the palace, forget his binds!” he ordered and hurried down the steps to the docks where the best help to the situation would be.

                The Argonians themselves.

                Already, the dockworkers were swimming out to the shipwreck, the assaulting ship sailing away with whatever job it had set out to do completed.

                Two of the four dockworkers were swimming back, each one with another head bobbing in the water as they took to the surface for their company, passing the drowning sailors to the guards at the shore before swimming back for another round, Ulfric biting his lip.

                He counted eighteen sailors, some dead, some almost dead, before Laronen arrived, his wrist firmly gripped by the guard that accompanied him, his long legs carrying him much faster and much further than the guard, making it look more like Laronen was the one dragging the guard to the scene.

                No words had to be said as he immediately dropped to his knees to do his job healing, the sailors of Windhelm directing him to ones that needed more attention than what standard drowning regiments could do anything for, already three of the sailors that Ulfric had assumed to be dead sputtering back to life with air forced into their lungs, and Laronen dropped to his knees by a Bosmer who was moaning in pain and struggling to breathe due to the splinters of ship wood lodged in his chest.

                Laronen cursed quietly, his hands swiftly pulling free the shards and his hand glowed brightly over the wound to stop the bleeding. There were two others with wounds like that man, telling Ulfric that they had been caught right next to the blow that sank the ship.

                Beneath the ex-Thalmor’s skilled hands, the wounds closed and the man let out an easy breath and his eyes fluttered open.

                Laronen smiled down to the other Mer.

                “Hey, how are you feeling?”

                Ulfric could only draw the breath to shout out a warning as he saw the flash of movement that came next.

                The Bosmer ripped the dagger from its sheath at his side and drove it right into Laronen’s chest, those amber eyes going wide in shock as blood gushed free.

                The man took the opportunity bought with surprise to wretch himself away and onto his feet to attack the guards next, fighting with such fury with that lone dagger.

                There were too many guards close to him for Ulfric to use his Thu’um to help and he joined the frey, axe in hand as the Bosmer avoided a slash from one of the guard’s swords and he brought his axe up in an underhand swing and drove the blade right into his gut.

                It made it all halt before he wretched the weapon free and hacked into him again, this time at the shoulder, and the Mer died with nothing more than a gasp on his lips.

                Ulfric dropped his axe as he turned his attention to where Laronen had collapsed.

                _No, no, no_ … He thought like a mantra, blood pooling on the ground and he hurried to turn Laronen onto his back.

                The Mer was still alive though.

                He was alive.

                Ulfric only had to look down to his chest to see why.

                The ex-Thalmor had slid his hand between the layers of his coat and his shirt, muffling the glow as he healed himself with ease, blood dying the cotton of his shirt a deep red.

                Those amber eyes lifted to his sea colored ones and he gave a small breathless grin.

                “The Dominion seem to forget… that healing yourself is the first spell all Altmer are taught,” he said, withdrawing his hand and slowly sitting up. “I told you I knew what I was getting myself into.”

                Ulfric let out a breath he didn’t know that he had been holding.

                Laronen was okay…

                “Don’t ever scare me like that again,” was all Ulfric could say, suddenly feeling exhausted.

                Laronen only smiled and got to his feet slowly, the guards looking at him in complete disbelief after getting stabbed _in the chest_ all the way to the _hilt_ with a dagger.

                He should have been _dead_.

                The ex-Thalmor ignored the looks and moved to the next man with splinters in his chest, his breaths slow and even as he went about his work as though he had never been wounded.

                That damn Mer…

                Ulfric could only let out a heavy breath and shake his head.

                “Your brother’s going to find out about this…”

                “It would probably be best if he heard about it in person rather than down the grape vine,” Laronen admitted, his hands moving to the forehead of a man with a large gash that was oozing blood.

                “I’ll go tell him,” Ulfric sighed before looking to Galmar. “When he’s done, escort him back to the palace. Tell my steward to have a hot bath prepared for him and a good meal.”

                “After that, he deserves a little luxury,” Galmar agreed with a huff.

                “Jarl Ulfric,” Laronen said with a raised brow.

                “You’re covered in blood and you’ve been stabbed in the chest while on my watch, healer. Talos preserve us, your brother might try to lynch me for not keeping you safe. I’m willing to deal with your brother, do me a favor and just recover for the rest of the day,” Ulfric said, almost scolding him and making the Mer look almost sheepish.

                “As you wish.”

                The Jarl huffed and shook his head before picking up his axe and heading back towards the city. Going back to Candlehearth Hall, he frowned when he didn’t find Loriel with his friends there. Asking Elda if she had seen them, she shook her head. It took him a while before a guard was able to tell him that the Altmer had headed down to the training yard with his bow, a Nord woman, and a Breton man, and Ulfric let out a worried sigh after thanking the woman and heading down there.

                If he had headed down that way earlier, he would have found Loriel easily…

                And that was just from the way the angry bard’s voice carried with his outstanding lung capacity.

                He got to see why when he rounded the corner of the training yard, Loriel and Isran standing nose to nose, yelling at each other, an arrow threateningly being held in one of Loriel’s hands with the other holding onto his bow, his face a very handsome shade of furious red while Isran refused to back down from the verbal onslaught, making his own responses, the faces of the soldiers in the training yard ranging from a vague sense of fear to annoyance to humor. Serana and Celann seemed to be enjoying themselves at the familiar sight.

                Admittedly, Ulfric was enjoying himself too, providing he ignored the fact that he had to tell the currently raging man that his brother had been stabbed not ten feet from him.

                Ysrarald looked like he was trying to decide whether or not he should get between the two of them but both of them currently looked close to hurting not only each other but anyone else who interfered.

                Ulfric shook his head when Ysrarald’s eyes met his.

                Just don’t, this was either going to fizzle out or it was going to be good.

                A few long minutes later of screaming, the two finally fell silent, both of them breathing hard and obviously still very angry with each other for all the nasty things they said, years of pent up anger and hate all thrown forward like a deadly sea storm.

                Finally, Loriel let out an angry huff and shook his head before taking a step back and turning away, starting to stalk away.

                Isran couldn’t let it go though, he couldn’t drop it where it was.

                He just had to say one more thing.

                “Strange, you still scream at me like you’re still mine.”

                Loriel reacted instantaneously.

                No one saw him notch the arrow or pull back the string until the arrow was sank deep into the wooden beam ten feet behind Isran, the man standing completely frozen.

                Blood slowly dripped down the shaft.

                The look of fury in Loriel’s eyes was something else though.

                His eyes practically glowed like fire and gold, pupils tight and fierce.

                And in that moment, for heartbeats, all Ulfric could compare the Altmer to was a dragon.

                Slowly, Loriel lowered the bow in his hands.

                “You never had the _right_ to call me _yours_ ,” he said coldly.

                And Loriel stalked away, going right past Ulfric, his hands clenched at his sides, the bow still in hand.

                The Jarl could smell the blood on Loriel’s fingers, his draw-hand ripped open by the sudden movement that had gone into his reaction to Isran.

                _Chances of me rejoining are about as likely as me getting back into bed with him._

                _You never had the right to call me yours_.

                Loriel would never rejoin the Dawnguard.

                Loriel would never get back together with Isran.

                Isran didn’t have a chance.

                Ulfric didn’t need to worry about what he wondered had been an ember.

                Whatever fires still lingering between Loriel and Isran were only the fires of burning bridges.

                Ulfric breathed a breath he didn’t know he had been holding, and he turned to follow after Loriel, catching up to the Mer’s long strides only by hurrying.

                “Loriel,” Ulfric called.

                There was no response.

                “Loriel, wait,” he said and he caught the Mer by the wrist.

                “ _Don’t touch me!_ ”

                Loriel whirled towards him and his breath caught in his throat, finding himself face to face with the Jarl.

                “Oh!”

                He looked upset.

                Tired and upset, anger from his argument with Isran still weighing heavily on his heart.

                And his anger wilted.

                “Are you okay?” the Jarl asked.

                Loriel took a deep breath and frowned, his eyes dropping down.

                “Loriel…” he said softly.

                “I don’t think I’m okay.”

                Ulfric relaxed his expression, “Do you want to talk about it?”

                Loriel shook his head.

                “Okay. Let’s go back to the palace then. I’m sure your brother would like to see you after that. After the problem I had earlier that he helped with,” Ulfric said, the slight change of topic being a gentle distraction from Loriel’s problem with Isran.

                “What happened?” he asked softly.

                “There was a shipwreck off the coast. I had your brother come down there, to help with the people that were rescued from the wreck,” Ulfric explained as they walked back towards the palace. “There was a man among them who tried to hurt your brother. He’s alright though.”

                He watched Loriel’s expression and the Mer’s eyes widened in surprise and he sucked in a nervous breath.

                “Thalmor?”

                Ulfric shrugged. “I’m not sure but I’m beginning to think so,” he admitted.

                “I didn’t think they would do it so soon,” Loriel murmured.

                “You knew they’d come after him?”

                “The Thalmor are pretentious bastards that like to clean up anything they perceive as a loose end. I’ve been a loose end for years now and now my brother is too,” he admitted with a sigh.

                That brought him some relief that it really wasn’t a secret to Loriel about the potential of his brother being gone after by the Thalmor.

                “They’ll expect the death of their agent, and they’ll probably send another to check to see if the job is finished and if it isn’t, they’ll have instructions to finish him as well,” Loriel said wisely and shook his head. “It’s not safe outside of Windhelm. It probably won’t even be safe on the streets of the city either, they’ll find someone who will be able to walk into the city and hurt him. They’ll probably try to plant a sleeper as well, find out how to get access to Laronen, and try to kill him them, even if he’s in the palace,” Loriel murmured, and for once, Ulfric opened the door to the Palace of the Kings for Loriel, his hand resting at the small of his back, feeling the scar that stretched across the small of his back beneath his shirt.

                “Is the healer back yet?” Ulfric asked Jorleif and when the man shook his head, Ulfric looked back to Loriel, “Do you want to wait here for him?”

                Loriel nodded.

                “Okay.”

                They sat down at the table and Ulfric had a servant get them a bit of an early lunch while Loriel bandaged his bleeding fingertips with a bit of cloth, still anxious and he fiddled with the knots of the makeshift bandages.

                Ulfric wondered what topic would be a good one to distract Loriel with.

                And finally, he found one.

                “Tell me what it was like, growing up in the Summerset Isles,” he requested softly.

                The Mer drew in a breath and a weak smile came to his lips as his eyes flicked back and forth across the table before lifting to Ulfric’s eyes.

                “If I tell you that, will you tell me what it was like, growing up in Skyrim?” Loriel asked gently.

                Ulfric nodded, “Of course.”

                And he proceeded to listen as they ate, Loriel weaving a tale that the Jarl would have happily listened to for hours, his carefully selected words painting a picture for Ulfric of tall buildings and handsome cities packed with people, always busy, always doing something, always scurrying about like ants. He spoke of Altmer and Bosmer who lived there, servants and Khajiit cooks in the big houses, and the boring parties that were constantly thrown by the higher class as ugly displays of their status bought by wealth rather than hard work. He spoke of being a mischievous child, always sneaking away from the house, avoiding lessons, and tutors, and servants, and his parents, just so he could play with children from the lower class because they were so much funner.

                He actually envied those children.

                They actually lived a life, Loriel had felt.

                Unlike him.

                Stuck in that house, in that status created by the hard work of his parents.

                He was about to start talking about his schooling when Laronen came back, accompanied by Galmar, and Loriel stood up in a hurry, going to his brother and pulling him into a worried hug.

                The blood on Laronen’s shirt was mostly dry but it still transferred to Loriel’s from the tight hug.

                “Don’t you ever scare me like that again,” Loriel scolded.

                Laronen smiled, “Now you sound like Jarl Ulfric,” he said softly and he patted his brother’s shoulder, glancing to the Jarl in question in amusement.

                Loriel frowned at him and then looked back.

                “I said the exact same thing when I realized he was okay,” Ulfric admitted sheepishly.

                Loriel smiled something small and fond and he shook his head.

                “Why don’t you sit down, Laronen. At the table with us,” Ulfric requested and Laronen’s cheeks flushed.

                “I think I should change first, I am kind of covered in blood. And by transfer, so is Loriel.”

                It was then that Loriel noticed that his shirt was bloody as well and his cheeks colored.

                “You two go do that, I’ll have another plate brought,” Ulfric said and smiled, relaxed and kind before the two hurried off in opposite directions.

                Galmar had watched the entire thing, his expression soft as Ulfric looked back to his housecarl.

                “You look happy,” the man said quietly and reached out to pat his Jarl’s shoulder as he moved to walk past, “I suppose I have that elf to thank for that.”

                And the Jarl of Windhelm was surprised.

                But as he thought about it while Loriel and Laronen were fixing themselves, he realized that he really was.

                And that was a strange thing to feel.

                And he liked the feeling, very much.

                And when the two of them returned, Loriel finished his story about growing up in the Summerset Isles, his brother embellishing the story a little bit, and when they had finished, it was Ulfric’s turn to tell them what it was like growing up in Skyrim, although Ulfric had to admit he did not have a completely normal childhood, being both the son of a Jarl and being selected to be a future Greybeard.

                He had missed out on a lot of childhood because of the later of the two, spending the summers learning the trade of becoming a good Jarl from his father and spending the rest of his year far away from the place that was home to him, high up on the mountain and learning first the vocabulary of Dovah-Zul before he learned the grammatical rules, all long before he was able to learn how to use the power of the Thu’um.

                Anyone was capable of learning to speak the language of dragons, but it took very talented individuals to speak the words of power.

                “Did you ever manage to find a tune to that translation,” Ulfric ended up asking Loriel.

                “Actually, yes. The Dovah-Zul lyrics actually merge well with the song that came out after the Dragonborn’s victory, or at least the first verse of the dragon words does to the song.”

                Ulfric smiled. “It would be nice to hear one day. You’re a good singer.”

                Loriel shook his head, “I don’t really trust my voice right now.”

                “One day. When you’re ready,” Ulfric repeated.

                The bard drew in a breath and nodded.

                His eyes were only on Loriel, and Loriel wasn’t looking, but Laronen’s brother was.

                And when the Jarl met the healer’s eyes, the Mer smiled knowingly.

                When they finished eating, Laronen went to take his bath, Loriel went to go spend some last few hours with Serana and Celann, and Ulfric went to take a small nap before he would have to ride out after dusk.

                He dreamed of those fierce eyes, angry at Isran.

                And he wondered, where had he seen those eyes before?

                They stirred up a familiar feeling in his chest.

                And as he roused, he dressed in his armor for travel, for the meeting with Balgruuf, he found himself surprised when he and Galmar came face to face with Loriel coming up the stairs to retire to his room for the night and the Mer blinked in an equal level of surprise as well.

                “Are you heading out?” he asked, Galmar walking around him, leaving the two of them to talk briefly.

                “Yes,” Ulfric admitted, feeling like he could trust him. “I won’t be gone for too long though,” he reassured.

                Loriel frowned.

                “Is it about the rebellion?” he asked, his expression gently pinched and Ulfric sighed at Loriel’s abilities of perception.

                “Yes.”

                The Mer sighed, obviously not thrilled but his eyes met Ulfric’s, lips pursed gently in thought.

                “You promise you won’t be long?” he asked, sounding worried.

                “I promise,” Ulfric assured.

                And it made a small smile come to the Mer’s lips, gently reassured.

                “I’ll be waiting for you then.”

                _I’ll be waiting._


	23. Chapter Twenty-Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just FYI, this is also posted on my Fanfiction account too. Same name, same story. Enjoy. And don't forget to comment please.

                Everything in Balgruuf’s letter was exactly as it had suggested it would be when the Jarl of Windhelm arrived.

                The Jarl of Whiterun was wearing the armor of his hold’s guards, disguised as part of the patrol itself to be able to sneak out of his own palace while Ulfric had a little more freedom from Imperial eyes.

                With three giants dead, the guards who had accompanied the group stayed outside of the giant’s cave while both Jarls, both housecarls, and their most trusted seconds gathered inside. Six individuals, five of them Nord men and one Dunmer woman.

                Balgruuf’s brother, Hrongar, did not approve of this delicate treaty forged in secret, but he did not question his brother, after all, the man was Jarl and not him.

                “Thank you for being willing to do speak with me about this,” Ulfric said, extending a hand in greeting and in peace to the other Jarl.

                Balgruuf frowned and took his hand in a small, firm shake.

                “Our mutual friend gave me a lot to think about before he left,” he admitted. “I trust his wisdom. His last request to me was to give you an opportunity. This is that.”

                The words made Ulfric’s heart seize in his chest.

                Balgruuf and his men were the last to see Arson alive.

                “What was he like? In those last moments that you saw him,” Ulfric asked, feeling regret seep into his chest.

                He wished he had said more to Arson in those last moments before he left High Hrothgar than just Godspeed and may Talos protect you.

                He wished he had made Arson promise to come back, the same way that Loriel had made him promise to come back.

                Balgruuf’s eyes softened, either from remembering or from the way that Ulfric asked the question. “I’ve never seen a man as scared as he was be so brave.”

                Irileth spoke up then. “He was weeping when he climbed onto the beast’s back.”

                Hrongar said nothing, his head bowed.

                The man looked upset.

                “I wish I had gotten to properly say goodbye.”

                The Jarl of Whiterun drew in a breath, “I heard you were the first to go to High Hrothgar. He would have liked to know that. I think he respected you the most, he always spoke quite highly of you.”

                “I suppose we have the Dragonborn to thank for this meeting then,” Galmar spoke up.

                They all agreed on that matter.

                And from there, with the formalities and stirred emotions settled, the six of them spoke together, about what it would take for Ulfric to gain Whiterun as an underground ally hold, what the Bear of Markarth hoped to have of the hold in return, and then they turned the discussion back to Arson.

                More specifically, what Arson hoped for.

                To end the fighting between brothers and sisters in arms and turn the attention to where it really belonged.

                The Aldmeri Dominion.

                The Thalmor.

                If they could stall the war a little longer, a hard thing to do since Ulfric had already given the order to reclaim the Rift which would lift the peace treaty, they might be able to do something big by getting in touch with powerful members of society in other countries. If they could bring as many as they could together to form an alliance against the Thalmor, they might even be able to get rid of the menace that demanded control over the continent of Tamriel, if not at least put it on a leash.

                Neither of them thought that Arson would particularly want to just outright kill the Thalmor, but to bring them under control, that would be more his style of preaching.

                The problem was, outside of Skyrim, neither Ulfric nor Balgruuf nor Irileth nor Galmar nor Hrongar nor Ysrarald had many high-society contacts, especially not Ulfric who was currently the face of one side of the civil war against the Imperial’s control over Skyrim, and it made the Jarl of Windhelm draw in a breath in frustration as he thought.

                Having the willing aid of Laronen, an ex-Thalmor potentially opened up many doors.

                And with Loriel having been all around the continent, maybe him as well.

                “I will get in touch with one of my contacts, see what we can do about getting others to join in the real fight.”

                “There’s also the matter of the Emperor… Messages directly to him might be filtered through the hands of the Thalmor themselves,” Balgruuf said, frowning deeply.

                Now that was something Ulfric did not doubt that Laronen might know something about.

                “We’ll wait on him then. Focus on the other countries rather than the one I am at war with,” Ulfric admitted.

                They all agreed on that.

                He wondered what the hour was. How long had they been talking?

                He was starting to feel tired.

                Ulfric sighed and rubbed his face.

                Was Loriel still awake, waiting for him?

                “Perhaps it is time to bring this meeting for a close,” Ulfric suggested.

                The way that they all seemed to agree assured the Jarl of Windhelm that he wasn’t the only one who was tired.

                This time, it was Balgruuf who offered his hand to Ulfric.

                “Thank you for coming on such short notice.”

                Ulfric managed a small smile and grasped his hand.

                The shake was friendlier than it had been earlier.

                “Thank you for giving me an opportunity. I need good council in times like these,” he said.

                The two of them shared small smiles before they headed out of the cave.

                “You seem eager to leave, Jarl of Windhelm,” Hrongar commented dryly as he made a beeline for his horse.

                Ulfric felt a smile come to his lips as he pulled himself into his saddle.

                “There’s someone waiting for me,” he answered.

                Knowing that there was someone _waiting_ for him made his heart go fast.

                The Jarl of Whiterun smiled and shook his head, chuckling. “Don’t keep them waiting then,” he advised, as though he wished he had his own wife to go home to, a woman who he had lost giving birth to his youngest.

                Ulfric remembered her.

                But Balgruuf still had someone to go home to.

                He had three children waiting for him.

                And Ulfric?

                He had Loriel.

                “Godspeed and may Talos protect you,” the man bid the new allies he had made before the company of Windhelm tore off into the night.

                A decent amount of time had gone into their talks but not enough that dawn was on the horizon when the entourage returned to the stables of the city. No, it was still the wee hours of the morning. They had driven their horses hard and the beasts deserved some good rest and good food as a reward.

                The first hues of daylight would not come for hours.

                None but the guards saw the company reenter the city and the three commanders headed straight for the palace to get some rest. It would be a long day tomorrow on less than normal sleep. But Ulfric had other thoughts on his mind than sleep as he took to the hiding spot of the important documents and tucked away the written agreement that had been made that night.

                Stepping into the north wing, he could already hear Galmar’s snores through his door and he chuckled to himself before he came to the only door he wanted to be in front of that was not his own.

                He lightly tapped his knuckles against it and waited.

                Nothing more than a quizzical meow.

                A few long moments later, he heard scratching on the door.

                Ulfric quietly opened the door and kept his foot in the way so Baby wouldn’t escape, reaching down to the cat to pick him up and receive the fuzzy affections of the little orange creature who wasn’t as tiny as he had once been.

                Baby had a big meow now and an even bigger purr.

                And when he lifted his eyes from the attention-monger that had taken to his normal perch on Ulfric’s shoulders, the Bear of Markarth smiled to himself at the real view.

                Loriel’s head was thrown back against the height of his headboard, sitting back against it with his guitar on his lap, feet crossed at the ankles, and wearing the white cotton of his night clothes, his breaths soft and slow and deep and peaceful.

                Asleep.

                Ulfric had fallen asleep like that before and if the crick he had experienced that one time was anything to go by, Loriel’s neck was going to hurt him until the next day.

                It was a beautiful sight though.

                Carefully, Ulfric lowered his weight onto the edge of bed, Baby plopping himself onto the mattress, and the Jarl gently tugged the guitar out of Loriel’s loose grasp to hang it by the strap from the poster-edge of the bed frame.

                And finally, Ulfric reached out and cupped the back of Loriel’s head, gently tilting it up and away from the headboard.

                He could feel his thumb running against the stubble at his bard’s jaw, and he smiled a little.

                How many times could he say he had touched Loriel’s face, his cheeks, his jaw?

                Before he came back from his time with the Thalmor, it had been never.

                Before then, it had only been the shy brush of knuckles.

                No, this would only be the third time.

                The first time had been back in Wuunferth’s room while they were waiting for Laronen to come heal the worst of the physical damages to his brother. And the second time had been the night of the storm.

                That had been the night that told Ulfric so many things about the Mer.

                The weight of the Altmer’s body against his, the way he felt in his arms, the smell of his hair, the shape of his ear against his hand, the way his tears stung the air, the way his forehead crinkled and his nose wrinkled and the color of his eyes when he cried.

                Most of all, he remembered the way Loriel had leaned into his embrace.

                He loved him.

                If he hadn’t known it before, that moment when he held him to shield him from the sound of the storm would have been the moment he knew.

                The Mer in front of him let out a soft breath and those amber eyes fluttered open, sleepy and tired and he blinked as he recognized the feel of being touched before he recognized the man who was lifting his head, Ulfric’s fingers in the soft strands of harvest wheat and cradling his head lightly, his thumb curving about his ear.

                And a soft, sleepy smile that sent heat scoring through his chest lifted to his lips.

                “Hey… Welcome home.”

                If he was rendered deaf, dumb, and blind after that moment, the memory of Loriel’s voice and the way he looked at him would have been enough to sustain him for the rest of his life.

                And the Jarl smiled.

                “It’s good to be home.”

                For a moment, the two of them sat there in the quiet, the gentle crackling of the fire being the only sound between them, and Loriel drew in a slow deep breath, his eyes closing and he bent his neck with a slight groan, Ulfric lifting his hand away from the Altmer’s face as the other went about rubbing the kink out of his spine.

                “You stayed awake for me,” Ulfric noted.

                “I tried to,” Loriel admitted, his cheeks darkening a little as he looked away from the Nord and he smiled as he saw where his guitar had been put.

                “Still working on that song of yours? Closer?” Ulfric asked.

                The fact that the man remembered made the elf’s cheeks flush darker and he shook his head.

                “No, I… um… I was practicing a different song.”

                And he watched as Loriel’s tongue nervously peeked out from between those lips to wet them before dragging at his lower lip with his teeth.

                He drew in a nervous breath to compose himself.

                “A new creation?”

                The Mer shook his head before raising his amber eyes to Ulfric’s sea colored ones.

                “I had been thinking about what you said earlier. About the translation. And the song.”

                Ulfric rose his brows as Loriel drew in a nervous breath.

                “Um… Would you still like to hear it?”

                It was Ulfric’s turn to draw in a breath and he swallowed down his eagerness hard.

                “Of course,” he agreed, trying to sound casual.

                And Loriel smiled, something small and shy and his face was growing steadily darker as he picked up his guitar. He left the strap loose on his lap as he curled his legs and worried at his lip with his straight, white teeth, and cleared his throat, his long fingers brushing over the cords and he tried to find the right placings of his hands before he sucked in a nervous breath and closed his eyes.

                He was nervous.

                About really performing for someone for the first time since Talos only knew when.

                Ulfric watched as he drew in a slow, deep breath through his nose, calming and soothing.

                He held it for a heartbeat before he let it out through his lips.

                The same way Ulfric breathed when meditating.

                _Su’um ahrk morah_.

                Breathe and focus.

                He drew in another breath before he opened his eyes and he began.

                His fingers were clever over the strings, talented and practiced before he began to sing, his voice a little rough on the edges but beautiful none the less. And Ulfric let the sound of Loriel’s voice wash over him.

                “ _Alduin’s wings, they did darken the sky._

_His roar fury’s fire, and his scales sharpened scythes._

_Men ran and they cowered and they fought and they died._

_They burned and they bled as they issued their cries_.”

                The breath that came next took Ulfric by surprise as the words flowed smoothly, musical tones to the words that would have easily been spilled from the lips of Greybeards themselves.

                “ _Dovahkiin, Dovahkiin, naal ok zin los vahriin_

_Wah dein vokul mahfaeraak ahst vaal…_

_Ahrk fin norok paal grann fod nust hon zindro zaan,_

_Dovahkiin fah hin kogaan mu draal…_ ”

                Briefly, that tongue peeked out before the next verse came in the tongue of man.

                “ _We need saviors to free us from Alduin’s rage._

_Heroes on the field of this new war to wage._

_And if Alduin wins, man is gone from this world,_

_Lost in the shadow of the black wings unfurled_ ,”

                The last few notes that accompanied the end of the words were pretty before he went into the next verse, a smile curling on his lips.

                “ _But then came the Tongues on that terrible day._

_Steadfast as winter, they entered the fray._

_And all heard the music of Alduin’s doom,_

_The sweet song of Skyrim, sky-shattering Thu’um_.”

                His eyes closed, chin lifting as the bard began to lose himself to the music, to the old love that he had for singing, for playing, for performing.

                “ _And so the Tongues freed us from Alduin’s rage._

_Gave the gift of the Voice, ushered in a new Age._

_If Alduin’s eternal, then eternity’s done._

_For his story is over, and the dragons are gone_.”

                The sound that came next was not what Ulfric thought would be, knowing the lyrics of the song that the Bards College had turned out as Loriel allowed his own voice to flow freely, wordless and breathtaking. It was something he felt like he had almost heard during his training up in High Hrothgar, and Loriel didn’t even know.

                He had no idea just how much honor he brought to the song that was written in the memory of Arson, of the Tongues who gave the Greybeards themselves the Voice to use.

                And finally, he heard that last verse be repeated, gentle and kind.

                “ _And so the Tongues freed us from Alduin’s rage._

_Gave the gift of the Voice, ushered in a new Age._

_If Alduin’s eternal, then eternity’s done…_

_For his story is over, and the dragons… are gone_.”

                The last few notes clung to the air and Loriel’s jaw shifted, breathing in deeply and he nervously licked his lips.

                “So… What do you think?”

                Ulfric let out a breath he didn’t know he had been holding and he smiled.

                “That was… beyond words.”

                Loriel opened his eyes and lifted those amber ones to his.

                And Ulfric watched as they widened slightly in surprise.

                “Ulfric…”

                His hand reached out, and the sensation of his fingers against his cheek scored him before he realized why.

                When had those tears come?

                He looked down and closed his eyes, his own large hand coming up and covering Loriel’s.

                Gently, he collected that hand away from his face, but he did not let go.

                “If Arson heard that song on your lips, I think he would have been proud.”

                The words seemed to knock the breath out of Loriel and he looked…

                Wowed by the compliment.

                His cheeks grew dark, his entire face and down his throat as well, and Ulfric became astonishingly aware that he was still holding Loriel’s hand.

                The Jarl drew in a breath, his thumb tracing over the back of Loriel’s strong hand, feeling the calluses that were there as well, and he chewed his lip before he told him the truth.

                “Tonight, I went to see Jarl Balgruuf of Whiterun. About making peace between our two holds and finding a way to cease the civil war and how to create a united front against the Thalmor. He credited Arson for making him want to speak with me about it. More than anything, I know that Arson wanted peace in Tamriel, without fear underneath the Thalmor’s thumb. I also know that he was afraid. Of dying. Of failing. That he wished he hadn’t been the Dragonborn because he had been scared. Arson was the bravest man I ever met, and I feel that song honors him. Especially the way you sing it.”

                He watched Loriel’s expression change as his words flowed from his mouth.

                So many minute emotions filled his face, his eyes, so many in fact that Ulfric couldn’t pick out any one of them as the Altmer’s eyes grew shiny and a tear fell from his lashes.

                And Loriel wiped away the tear as quick as it came, his lower lip drawn between his teeth and he drew in a breath and swallowed before drawing another.

                “He thought the same way about you.”

                Sometimes Ulfric forgot that Loriel had accidentally adventured with the man, Loriel aiming to encode a lexicon and Arson off to claim an Elder Scroll.

                And Ulfric dropped his gaze to their hands.

                “What was he like?”

                He felt like he had asked that question four-hundred time already, but not to the right person.

                Everyone had spoken shortly about Arson, like every encounter had been brief but pleasant.

                Yet when Ulfric indulged the Dragonborn in the main hall at the great table in speaking about Blackreach, in speaking about Loriel, he spoke like he knew the Mer almost intimately and it had made him feel starved.

                He wanted to know Loriel the way Arson spoke of him.

                He also wanted to know Arson the way Loriel spoke of him.

                Loriel chewed his lip, leaning back against the headboard, guitar still on his lap, and he lifted his eyes to Ulfric’s.

                “I… He… He was,” and he drew in a slow breath, lips between teeth as he thought and closed his eyes.

                Ulfric could feel his pulse quicken through their hands.

                “He was a stranger who wanted to be known,” he said softly. “And he was scared of letting people know who he really was. How he really felt. He just… he couldn’t… I…” he shook his head and swallowed down a breath, the harsh edges of emotions seeping into his voice as it started to crack. “Being Dragonborn, made Arson feel more like some decorative object that was only vaguely useful. He didn’t…” and Loriel had to take another deep breath, the tears coming faster, “He felt he was everything everyone always told him he wasn’t. He felt like he was a liar and a thief and a coward and he hated himself and he had hated himself for so long that he couldn’t remember what it had been like to actually like himself and not pretend in front of other people. He didn’t feel like anyone would really miss him if he was gone. But he didn’t want to die. He was scared of dying. He was scared of pain and of suffering and he was scared of other people suffering in his stead. The only reason he was willing to face that black dragon was because he had one person who had no idea how he felt that he thought was worth dying for.”

                Loriel was shaking, his free hand coming up to cover his mouth and his hand twisted in Ulfric’s and gripped the larger hand hard.

                He needed an anchor.

                And Ulfric allowed Loriel to use him as one.

                He twisted their fingers together and he felt Loriel’s heart beating against his palm, teardrops falling down his cheeks and Ulfric memorized this side of Loriel.

                Compassionate, emotional, caring.

                The way he was with the Dunmer, and the Argonains, and his brother, and the members of the Dawnguard, and the people of Windhelm.

                Someone like Loriel would have made a good king.

                “I wish I had told him to come back,” Ulfric admitted, the words weighing heavily on his heart since the day he had seen the pyre.

                Loriel’s expression was tight as he looked to him with those eyes and he smiled, small, tight, and sad.

                The two of them sat there for a long time before Loriel sniffed and Ulfric reached out, cupping the Mer’s shoulder, and then gently drawing him forward. And Loriel willingly leaned against him, ignoring his armor, ignoring his guitar. Ignoring what kept the two of them separate from each other.

                “Thank you for telling me.”

                “Thank you for letting me tell,” his elf whispered.

                And the two of them sat like that for a long time until Loriel was entirely calm and dawn was starting to peek through the windows.

                “You need sleep,” Ulfric finally said.

                “You do too, you’ve been out all night causing all sorts of trouble for the Thalmor,” Loriel said and he grinned.

                The childishness made Ulfric smile, feeling almost lighthearted.

                “When we’re both awake, I need to speak to you and your brother about something. To see if we can make a little more trouble for the Aldmeri Dominion,” he told him, nudging Loriel’s tear-stained cheek with his knuckles.

                Loriel nodded. “We’ll see what we can do.”

                Ulfric stood from the bed.

                “Good night, Loriel.”

                “Good night, Ulfric.”

                And the memory of Loriel’s hand in his, their fingers twining, emotions filling both of them under the bard’s words, it burned into him as he retreated and slept.

                He felt like he really knew now.

                He felt like he knew the real Arson.

                And the real Loriel.


	24. Chapter Twenty-Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just FYI, this is also posted on my Fanfiction account too. Same name, same story. Enjoy. And don't forget to comment please.

                Much to Galmar’s surprise, Ulfric was awake before he came to rouse him.

                Well, perhaps not awake but he was conscious to some degree, sitting up in his bed and feeling deathly hungover from his biological clock forcing him to wake up the moment the sun teased the temperature of the room a little bit.

                Galmar scowled at the sight of him. “Go back to bed, if anyone asks, I’m saying you drank too much,” and then turned right back around and closed the door after.

                Talos _bless_ that man.

                And the Jarl collapsed back onto bed, a dreamless sleep instantly overtaking him again.

                After a few good hours of sleep, Ulfric woke and crawled out of his bed to take a bath and meditate.

                The noon meal was to be served in an hour or two, which gave him time to clean himself up and gather Laronen, Loriel, Galmar, and Ysrarald to discuss the web of contacts that the two Altmer might have to prominent members of society in all other countries, although by the time he came downstairs, he found Loriel already in Laronen’s room, mercilessly teasing his brother again about Nilsine Shatter-Shield coming to visit again for nothing more than to talk it seemed.

                The poor Mer’s face was so dark red that Ulfric wondered how he still had proper circulation.

                Then, Laronen noticed his presence.

                “Please make my insufferable brother _stoooop_ ,” he whined pitifully.

                Ulfric gave an amused smile, “What makes you think he’ll listen to me?”

                “He listens to you better than he listens to anyone else in this country!”  
                Loriel frowned, his cheeks coloring, meanwhile Galmar and Ysrarald stifled laughter behind their Jarl.

                It made Ulfric raise a brow, and he shook his head, feeling a small chuckle in his chest that didn’t escape. “We need to have a discussion. All five of us,” he said before stepping into the room further so the other two could enter, the direct order of the guards outside the room to be further away than usual and for no one to be allowed to approach the room unless one of the Stormcloak commanders said otherwise.

                Laronen frowned, looking worried before his brother rested a hand on his shoulder, “You’re not in trouble,” he reassured.

                And then, they all found places in the room to situate themselves comfortably for the discussion before Ulfric filled the two in on what had been discussed the night before with Balgruuf, about the idea of creating an allegiance with the other countries to create a united front against the Thalmor and the Aldmeri Dominion. The biggest issue would be convincing the Emperor himself to take part in it, however, the Stormcloak commanders all agreed that having all the other countries, or at least representatives of those countries, first would provide plentiful influence to convince the Emperor to take part.

                Loriel looked absolutely shocked, and increasingly so the more that Ulfric spoke.

                Laronen looked surprised but thoughtful.

                Their responses made it more obvious who was taught to be more political and who had spent most of his life being as far away from legal ideas as possible.

                Laronen rubbed his mouth, deep in thought before he said, “I can get us in touch with anti-Thalmor individuals of power located within the Aldmeri Dominion territory as well as prominent members of society in Hammerfell and a few other insiders like myself. Although, for this alliance I think it would be best for all races to be represented rather than just members of a country. Three or five members of each race as representatives,” he stated before looking to his brother, “The people that I know can get a few others from down the vine.”

                The other Altmer drew in a breath, “I can take care of Morrowind and High Rock. I have allies among the Orcs as well,” he said firmly.

                That took care of at least four different races out of the ten races.

                The two of them frowned thoughtfully at each other.

                “The two of you would be Altmer representatives then,” Ulfric stated.

                Laronen nodded while Loriel gaped at the Jarl again, “I’ll get us in touch with another person who might be willing to be a representative as well.”

                There’s five.

                Loriel shut his mouth and chewed his lip in thought, “Then at least Ulfric, Balgruuf, and Elisif will be the Nord representatives.”

                There were no arguments about that from anyone.

                That made six out of ten races.

                Loriel licked his lips. “What about the Khajiit and Bosmer?” he asked Laronen.

                “I’ll handle the Khajiit. The Mane is a good person. As for the Bosmer, I’ve got a Thalmor insider in mind. She’ll be able to connect us with other representatives, or at least other Bosmer. I’ve got one Argonian who would be happy to help with this project but I’m not sure how good her connections are.”

                “I know one who does,” Loriel stated.

                That made nine, and with Emperor Titus Mede II himself being the unaccounted for race as well as whomever he chose for the alliance being representatives of the Imperials, that accounted for everyone.

                He had thought that Loriel and Laronen might have been able to get them in touch with at least one proment member of society in all the other countries but he didn’t think that their web of connections ran so deep, not until they spoke of it. The two of them were like spiders, twinging and plucking at different threads of a web to send ripples further down.

                But there was another problem, and Laronen spoke of it.

                “Mother gave the orders for all non-Empire based couriers leaving Skyrim to be inspected at the boarders though, so how are we going to get these messages out?”

                The three Stormcloak commanders looked at each other before they heard a laugh and all of them looked directly to Loriel, a sly, almost cruel smile on his lips, reminding Ulfric that the bard was in fact Elenwen’s son. “Now that’s the easy part.”

                He didn’t bother explaining any further before he turned to Ulfric, expression dropping to something that was more Loriel than Elenwen in appeal and he stated, “We, the three of us,” he motioned to the Jarl, the healer, and himself, “need to sit down and write up a draft for these messages. You two are the politically smart ones so you’ll be able to make it sound better informed and more politically advantageous than I would-

                “Says the bard,” Galmar shot in.

                “Just because I went to the college does not mean that I am well versed in legal matters or anything that might convince some of these high-end people to help us. You want a man who could do that with ease, you talk to the Giraud Gemane,” Loriel shot back at the housecarl with a huff, arms crossing over his chest indignantly before he continued, “Once we have the draft down, we can personalize the messages to the individuals and get them on their way.”

                Laronen frowned, “And you’re not going to tell us how you plan on getting these messages out, are you?”

                “In time, I will.”

                Ulfric wondered that himself.

                “After the noon meal, we’ll work on it together,” Ulfric stated and he rubbed his mouth.

                With his order for the Rift to be reclaimed underway, he had essentially opened the gate for the war to be restarted, which would diverting Thalmor attention a little in this matter but it would also cause more losses of lives that could have been better used for focusing an attack on the Thalmor. If he had waited a little longer, he would have been able to do this all with as little bloodshed as possible, but under the scrutiny of the Thalmor from a distance.

                Arson likely wouldn’t have thought the trade of chaos for cover would have been wise, but Ulfric didn’t even know if Balgruuf was going to come around until the man sent his courier two, almost three days ago.

                And Ulfric turned to Galmar and Ysrarald. “Give out the order to the holds, forts, and camps to be on the defense from the Imperials. Our effort to reclaim the Rift, failure or success, will not go unnoticed by Tullius.”

                “What?”

                The one word was all Ulfric needed to remember all too late that _Loriel_ wouldn’t have liked the trade of pre-made chaos for cover either… It was a colossal error in judgement to mention breaking off the peace treaty, that he was aware of now, and the Jarl turned to look at the glowering Mer while Galmar was doing his best to keep a straight face as he got to witness Loriel’s temper quietly flaring up at the man.

                The Altmer growled out, “When, precisely, did this happen?”

                There was something about that pose, Loriel leaning back against a table with one leg crossed over the other at the ankle, arms crossed over his chest, that was both intimidating and alluring and Ulfric swallowed before his thoughts could start to wander, “Four days ago. Before I received the message from Balgruuf.”

                The bard didn’t move, didn’t change in any way, but the way his jaw clenched and eyes narrowed told the man that he was wanting to lose his temper with the Jarl.

                “If I had known the Jarl of Whiterun had such an idea up his sleeve, I would have waited,” Ulfric added, feeling sheepish under the Altmer’s glare.

                Loriel drew in a slow, even breath and shook his head, shifting his jaw after unclenching it, and he got up from where he stood, crossing towards the door.

                “Where are you going?” Ysrarald asked.

                “To buy my stupid brother some pipe tobacco.”

                And he slammed the door behind him.

                There was silence in the room before Laronen murmured, “Well that was an impressive display of restraint.”

                Galmar rose a brow at him, having never _actually_ witnessed Loriel truly angry like Ulfric, Ysrarald, and Loriel had.

                “He nearly took off the ear of the Dawnguard leader in the yard yesterday, that was one hell of an old lover’s spat to watch,” Ysrarald mentions.

                “You should have seen him back at the Isles. If you want to know about bad lover’s spats, ask Lore about Ancano,” Laronen said and shook his head. “That was torture for both of them.”

                _I know that name._

                Not wanting to be part of this conversation anymore, Ulfric excuses himself, telling the ex-Thalmor that he would see him after lunch and leaves, allowing orders for Laronen’s guards to go about their regular duties with the Mer. The healer could see patients again.

                He finds himself at the trapdoor to the roof with the Thalmor documents in hand.

                And finds the pages right away.

                Ancano, a Thalmor mage, Altmer, stationed at the College of Winterhold as an ‘advisor’ to the Archmage. His orders were to keep an eye over the students there, for anyone who could be deemed a threat against the Thalmor, against the Dominion, and he was to find out about objects of power and report back to Elenwen about his finds if he came across any. There was a report about an excivation being done in Saarthal, but that was the last thing Laronen was able to discover before he gave the file to Ulfric four months ago.

                And then there was the page on Loriel.

                Five, to be exact.

                He had skimmed over them the first time, only looking to see the truth behind the tales, the truth that Loriel had committed arson the first time in the Thalmor Hall of Records at the Summerset Isles, had escaped in Valenwood by means of the same crime, had been spotted not far from the boarder of Morrowind and Black-Marsh and lead the Thalmor on the chase of a lifetime that lasted months before Loriel disappeared. The last entry in that section had been dated roughly a year before he supposedly entered Skyrim.

                But now, Ulfric looked at the list at the far back of his entry.

                Known relationships.

                His family was listed, Elenwen as his mother, a Mer named Sauron Elsinlock who Ulfric assumed was the father of the triplets, Laronen and Lermion as his brothers.

                Next came lists of friends, many names, most marked as lower class.

                And then he found Ancano’s name, and beside it was one word ‘intimate’.

                It also told him that Ancano confessed to last having contact with Loriel eight months before he had fled the country.

                There were other names too.

                A Bosmer family in Valenwood, executed for hiding Loriel who has been going by the name of Coredalf at the time being, one of them listed as being intimate with the Altmer.

                There was an unnamed Khajiit he had been traveling with when he had been spotted in Morrowind that had died of his wounds before he could be interrogated.

                Then there were many names in Skyrim.

                All of them dated recently.

                Mithnar.

                That was the name he had been going by back at the Bards College.

                Student to both Inge Six-Fingers, the Dean of Lutes, and Pantea Ateia, the Master Vocalist. He was friendly with the Dean of History based on interest in ancient songs and musical history, but he was no student to Giraud Gemane. The reports from his time at the College spoke of a very quiet life that was dedicated to music and song rather than socializing.

                There was mention of Loriel spending time under Elenwen’s hand before his execution was scheduled at Helgen.

                Followed by his escape due to the dragon’s attack.

                And then there was a list of sightings and narrow escapes before reports showed that Loriel was spending the bulk of his time in Eastmarch, spending weeks at a time within the city of Windhelm before disappearing even when tailed.

                Loriel had killed a lot of Thalmor agents in the ten months since Helgen before his capture.

                Fourteen months he had known Loriel.

                Ulfric had spent an easy eight of those months painfully attracted to the Mer.

                And four of them knowing he was in love with him.

                And then there was detailing of Loriel’s capture after the peace treaty at the Throat of the World.

                Found and captured on a road leading up to Whiterun. He seemed to be in a state of shock that he was useless in interrogation and Elenwen gave the order for him to be tortured to ‘loosen his tongue’. When rumor of a courier came, one looking for Loriel, she had Laronen go and collect the letter. Thalmor theory was based on those two words. That Loriel and Ulfric held a relationship of sorts, although confirmation needed to be made. The last entry for Loriel’s capture was that he was starting to babble, and by the wording of the entry, whoever had dictated Loriel’s original dossier was wondering if they had already broken him.

                Laronen’s handwriting was shaky in that section.

                After that, Laronen had come to him and Ulfric had ordered the rescue.

                The fever would have killed him down in that Thalmor prison.

                Wuunferth said that if the fever had gone unchecked for a week longer, he would have been dead.

                The interrogator slitting Loriel’s throat should have killed him.

                If Loriel hadn’t contracted his fever and Elenwen hadn’t sent down Laronen, he would have been dead.

                He remembered the way Loriel looked when Ralof brought him back.

                He remembered the way Loriel leaned into his touch as they waited for Laronen to come.

                He remembered the way Loriel struggled to the surface under Laronen’s guidance while barely treading water in his mind.

                He remembered the way Loriel sobbed against his brother.

                He remembered the way Loriel cried out from his dreams.

                He remembered the way Loriel would hyperventilate upon waking.

                He remembered the way Loriel shied away from all but his brother.

                He remembered the way Loriel _wailed_ under the audiable onslaught from the storm.

                Loriel could have gone anywhere that night.

                He could have stayed in his room, with his brother.

                He could have gone down into the barracks, the farthest point in the palace from the outside.

                He could have gone anywhere.

                But Loriel had ended up in Ulfric’s room.

                After that night, Loriel started to show signs of recovering.

                And now they were where they were now, going on three months later.

                And Loriel didn’t seem so broken anymore.

                He was himself.

                There were still moments when Ulfric knew Loriel struggled with himself in the wake of the Thalmor torture but those nights had been transformed into music making to cure his sleeplessness created by the nightmares.

                There were still moments where Loriel would be found shaking and coming down from the heady feeling of sickness that came with hyperventilating-inducing episodes of panic.

                There were still moments where Loriel would be so lethargic that it was all he could do to will himself to stick with his daily routine of going down to the training yard to shoot with the Aedric bow, even when his body seemed to be aching so badly from phantom wounds that he couldn’t do even half of his usual shots for the day.

                There were still moments when Ulfric checked in with Laronen to find out that his brother visited him, seeking comfort from whatever spell that was sank into his mind that he didn’t dare speak of.

                He wondered.

                And he kept wondering as he tucked away the book of documents into the folds of his clothes and descended the trapdoor, back into the kitchens and headed out towards the main hall.

                Where he promptly ran straight into Loriel when he turned the corner.

                They both reached out in surprise from Ulfric knocking the other off balance and when he stabilized, Ulfric noticed that his hair was wet and dripping, darkening his clothes wherever the strands rested. He was also shaking.

                “Lore?”

                “I really hate when you call me that.”

                It made Ulfric blink in surprise and Loriel let go of him, taking a shuddered breath and he bit his lip.

                “I… I’m sorry,” he murmured and moved to go around Ulfric before the Jarl caught his wrist.

                “Can you skip lunch with your brother today?”

                It made the Mer stop.

                He felt his pulse quicken under his fingers.

                And he looked back.

                “What are you asking for, Ulfric?”

                He looked regretful.

                Ulfric hated that expression.

                “Can you tell me what’s going on inside your head?”

                It made him draw a breath, startled, and the expression he wore changed minutely.

                It changed the regret into sorrow.

                “Ask me something I can answer.”

                So he asked something only Loriel could answer.

                And it was something that would take him hours to accomplish.


	25. Chapter Twenty-Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just FYI, this is also posted on my Fanfiction account too. Same name, same story. Enjoy. And don't forget to comment please.

                It took only one glass of the bard’s favorite vintage brandy for the Altmer’s anxious trembling to stop.

                It also only took one glass for Ulfric to realize just how _potent_ the fruity stuff was and politely excuse himself from drinking any more of it. Unlike Loriel, who didn’t want to remember even opening his mouth to answer the question, the Jarl wanted to remember everything that was said.

                It was such a simple question and Loriel didn’t think that a simple answer would do.

                He had to give a full explanation to go along with it.

                They were sitting in front of the hearth for the third time since they met, both with their backs against the headboard for the second time, and side by side for the first time in that spot. Just like the first time, Loriel sat with his knees drawn up and elbows lazily resting on them, his bottle of alcohol either dangling from his fingers or being put to his lips for a hefty swig. In this case, Loriel was knocking back a burning swallow while Ulfric kept glancing at the Mer from the corner of his eye, his own legs stretched out, lightly crossed at the ankle.

                When he drew the mouth of the bottle away from his wet lips, he settled it down on the step below him and swallowed, adam’s apple bobbing thickly in his throat as that amber gaze reflected in the fire briefly. He closed them and he drew a breath.

                Then, he began.

                “First Planting. That was the day we were born. Before I left the Isles, Elenwen said that our birth was the first time she had ever missed the holiday since Father received the promotion that brought him into the ranks of the upper class there in Skywatch. He was a commander for the Aldmeri Dominion’s military and because of his rank, he wasn’t home a whole lot. Most of the time it was just us and Elenwen but when he was there, Divines, it hurt to just _breathe_ around him. Laronen and Lerion were always able to walk eggshells with him, they were peaceful and non-confrontational. They were like fish in a river, swimming out of the way before they’d hit a bolder. Me? I might as well have been a log, smashing into everything along the way to the mill. The only thing he was proud of me about was how easily I took to Destruction magic, and even then, I _had_ to be the best out of everyone in our mage lessons. Laronen, he was a natural at Restoration, but he would cry so _easily_ and weasel his way out of Destruction lessons. Lermion was absolutely hopeless at magic in general but by the Gods could he enchant. Took to it so well that the best enchanter in the city, the local blacksmith, took him up as his apprentice. I was completely hopeless at Restoration but that didn’t really matter to Father. I was good at Destruction. Good enough for him to see me having a future in the Thalmor as an agent, like Elenwen. Being in the military like him? Feh,” Loriel spat in disgust, taking another swig, “I was too snarky, had a problem with authority, couldn’t follow orders well enough, shit with a weapon in my hand. The military wasn’t capable of tolerating someone like me. Or maybe it was just him saying that to try to get me to work harder. If it was just him, it obviously didn’t work because after he said that, I started skipping lessons. I was maybe twenty then, about ten-ish to races of Man.”

                Loriel put down the bottle and shifted, his thigh resting against Ulfric’s as he lowered his legs and those knuckles rested at the edge of his jaw, helping him turn his head from one side to the other, his neck popping mildly before he frowned deeply at the fire.

                Ulfric took a pull from his bottle of mead in silence.

                “He didn’t believe in beating your child for discipline but I’m damn sure he wanted to beat me. He started spending more time at work just so he could avoid me, not that it broke anyone’s heart but Elenwen’s. I had been skipping mage lessons for about a year before Father stopped paying for my portion, which left only Laronen being tutored. He gave up in me becoming even Thalmor. Then, when I was twenty-three, I met Vilya Thromus.”

                He was smiling at the memory now, his eyes closed.

                “She had the most amazing voice I had ever heard, even when she wasn’t singing. I wanted to sing like her and I told her so. So she gave me a test. Match the notes that she sang.”

                Loriel laughed, his head bowing before he threw his head out and he piped out a scale that went up and down, high and lovely simple. He grinned shook his head.

                “Auri-El smite me, I thought I sounded awful. Vilya though, she thought I had a lot of raw talent. She told me that if I came to a certain tavern before lunch every day, she’d teach me how to polish my voice. My father was _livid_ the first time he heard me practicing, demanded to know why I was singing because how dare a young _man_ sing, singing should be left to women alone, and I told him I wanted to be a bard. He got in my face about it, screaming and threatening to throw me out. If he had done that when I was younger, I would have pissed myself out of fear. But by then, I was so headstrong and determined that I screamed back. That was the first time he hit me. And the first time Elenwen came to my defense. She didn’t like that I wanted to be a bard, she thought it was a generally useless trade, but my lessons with Vilya kept me out of trouble. She mediated a deal between him and I. He would _allow_ me to keep going to my vocal lessons if I went back to my Destruction magic lessons again. I would have kept going to Vilya’s lessons regardless of what deal he made me, but he wouldn’t confront me about it if I attended mage lessons. I said fine, whatever. So in the mornings I got to sing and in the afternoons, I would be playing catch-up with my peers. Vilya stayed in Skywatch for three years for me. And they were the best three years of my life. She had become a comfort, a constant to me, and I had no idea what to do with myself without her being part of my routine. I kept up my practicing without her but it wasn’t the same. I was almost thirty then. About my early teens for a Man. A year or so later, I met Andresalmo. My first thought on him was exactly three words. What, an, _asshole_.” He laughed, holding up a finger with each word and he took a sip, a small one this time. “He was one of the rookies of the local gang, the Summerset Shadows. The Shadows had started out as nothing more than a group of friends who liked to cause trouble before they started to make a reputation and it drew followers. Linwe lapped it up. Andresalmo, or Reyes as I eventually called him, was a pickpocket. A good one. But not good enough for me to not catch him trying to lift off of me the second time I met him. I had about as much love as he did for the Aldmeri guards, so I wasn’t willing to turn him in. I _was_ willing to break a few of his fingers though if I ever caught him trying to steal from me again. He took heed of my warning, but not enough to keep away from me. The third time I saw him, I was at a festival with my brothers, all of us dressed alike to screw with people. Reyes recognized me right away from Laronen and Lermion. I had no idea how he did it back then, but he could tell the difference between us. He pulled me off to the side, talked with me a bit, pissed me off quite a bit too, before he told me something that really took me for a spin.”

                Loriel had a smile on his lips, a fond one with a little bit of sadness laced into it.

                “’I’d be a damn fool if I didn’t kiss someone as pretty as you before the head of the night’. That was one minute before midnight, and he kissed me right after.”

                He closed his eyes and took another drink.

                “Asshole stole my first kiss and ran off before I could deck him. He stole the next seven kisses after that too. Finally, I managed to catch him. Tackled him, really. The fall broke two of his fingers. And I told him, I told him ‘I warned ya what would happen if you stole from me again’. And then I repaid the favor. I stole eight kisses back. And we stole a lot more from each other after that. That was the first time I thought I was in love.”

                Ulfric watched Loriel play with his fingertips, picking at his nails absently, silent in return as he let Loriel think about where to go from there. Remembering Andresalmo, Reyes, seemed to be hard on him.

                “I guess we were technically together for three years before he took off with the Shadows to Firsthold, looking for bigger and badder opportunities to make a name for themselves. He didn’t say a word to me before he left. One day he was there, the next, he was just gone. Him leaving back then, that left a hole in me that never really healed right. I dated around, lost my virginity, learned just what my father thought about being gay—he almost threw me out for that, Elenwen made him change his mind—and then I dated Ancano. He was one of my peers in the Destruction lessons, a little older than me, really straight-laced, did everything by the book. I had no idea why Father and Elenwen liked him until I learned that he was a recruit for the Thalmor. We had a rocky relationship. We would be happy with each other, have a fight, stew for a while, try to work things out, things would explode and we’d break up, then we’d be right back together like waves on the ocean for it to start all over again. The last fight he and I had was when I was 43, one that got physical. We broke each other that night. And we realized that we couldn’t keep doing this. So we broke up for the last time. A few months later, after my birthday, Elenwen said she wanted to take Laronen, Lermion, and I on a tour of the inner workings of the Thalmor, to see what she did at work. To see whether any of us wanted to do it as well. Lermion stated his case plainly, he’d take the tour but he was finishing out his apprenticeship. He liked making things more than he was interested in being an agent of the Thalmor. Laronen, he was kinda spineless when it came to what our mother wanted, he always wanted to please her. He was also a bleeding heart. Couldn’t turn down an opportunity to help anyone. Me? I was in a career that my parents thought would go nowhere, and I was easily the best Destruction student in my class, something that the Thalmor could use. So we went on the tour. Everything looked like what I expected it to look like, not knowing much more about the Thalmor back then other than they were very technical and political acting sect within the Dominion, enforcing rule and whatnot. And then we got down to the lowest level.”

                Loriel had to stop, close his eyes and swallow hard before letting his head rest back against the headboard. And then he tapped it back three or four times.

                Delaying.

                He took a drink.

                Two.

                His expression was painful, even without him opening his eyes.

                And when he did, Ulfric saw how glassy his eyes were.

                Loriel drew in a breath.

                “I blacked out when I saw the bodies.”

                That was when the first tear fell.

                “I blacked out and when I woke up, I couldn’t breathe. Elenwen didn’t know what was wrong with me but I was panicking. Badly. It was worse than the aftershock feelings of every fight I had with Ancano, worse than how I felt every time Father screamed in my face. Laronen had seen it only twice before when soldiers had been brought to his Restoration tutor for help. I couldn’t spit out questions fast enough at my mother. They were torturing _people_ and _killing them_. Of all races! Of all _ages_! And you know what her excuse was? ‘It is for the good of the Aldmeri Dominion that the Thalmor does this’,” he mocked her voice and he gagged, “I had no idea the Thalmor were such _monsters_. That my own _mother_ was a _monster_. That she wanted _me_ to be a monster as well. I bolted. I ran. I rode out the rest of my meltdown and a day later, I walked into the Thalmor Hall of Records. And I did what I could do best.”

                Ulfric drew a breath. He was only 44 at the time. A young man, mid-teens to a Nord, and Elenwen expected him to be mentally ready for _that_.

                “You destroyed it.”

                Loriel’s mouth twisted into a vulgar _hint_ of a smile that made Ulfric shift his posture.

                “I cast flame runes on every bookshelf that I passed behind the secretary, and when the first one was set off, all of them went off. The Hall of Records was right next to the water, it took me less than a minute to hide under the docks while everyone was either looking for me or trying to put out the fire. No one looked under the fucking _docks_. And when night fell, I climbed the anchor of the cargo ship that was headed for High Rock, hid myself in a barrel, and I stayed on that ship, stealing rations when I could, until they hit port and I climbed back down the anchor into foreign waters. I didn’t get out of the Sea of Ghosts until I thought I was safe under the cover of darkness. My clothes are probably still down at the docks, shoved into my boots and weighed with rocks. Then, I got to learn what life was like outside of the Isle.”

                He smiled bitterly.

                “No one knew who the hell I was and that was the way I preferred it when I got there. It was nice for a change. To every Breton I encountered, I was just Yakov. I made up all _sorts_ of lies about who I was, where I was from. The only three things that were consistent was the name I gave, the fact that I was an Altmer, and the fact that I would occasionally suffer crippling panic attacks. I was in Shornhelm when I suffered a really bad one. It was bad enough that I was rendered almost completely catatonic for nearly two weeks. The Temple of Dibella there took me in and took care of me until I was about to function again. I wasn’t the first person they had taken care of with Legionaire’s disease. The youngest though. That was the first time I knew what was wrong with me. Legionaire’s disease, from seeing what monsters the Thalmor really were. I told them that I didn’t know what caused it though, and they said it was probably for the better that I didn’t remember. It made it easier to recover. I didn’t really know how to thank them for taking care of me though. So I stayed and did whatever I could to help them. I learned a lot from the Temple while I was there though.”

                While Loriel took another pull from his bottle, Ulfric rolled the words around in his head.

                The first thought he entertained was the realization that Loriel had Legionnaire’s disease long before he came to be captured by the Thalmor months ago.

                It explained why he recovered so fast.

                He was already used to it.

                The second one was that Loriel learned under the Temple of _Dibella_.

                “What did you learn there?”

                Without missing a beat, Loriel gave a wiry grin and answered.

                “Guitar. Basic survival skills. The ins and outs of sucking dick really well.”

                Ulfric was grateful he had not only taken a drink recently but also glad that he had shifted his posture earlier because he was praying to the Divines that Loriel didn’t notice him hardening in his slacks at the last thing he said.

                _Fuck!_ The very idea of Loriel enjoying that sort of thing made his face _burn_.

                Seemingly ignorant to Ulfric’s current dilemma, Loriel continued talking.

                “I stayed for almost a year before I saw my first Thalmor in High Rock and I knew it was time to start moving again. I made it as far as Wayrest before I stopped for longer than a month. I met Ancus there, a bard in training, dreamed about going to the College in Skyrim, but he was too scared to leave his mum and da behind. Being friends with him reminded me that I once wanted to sing for the joy of singing. He and I got close. We might have become lovers if I didn’t know that the Thalmor were fishing to be more active through Tamriel, especially in High Rock. But I started to sing again. And then I crossed the boarder from High Rock into Hammerfell. That was a bad idea off the bat,” the Altmer sighed and shook his head, taking a drink of his brandy.

                Ulfric took another drink and wondered how much of Loriel’s bottle was left, talk of the Thalmor again making his brain peel itself away from the mental image of Loriel with his lips wrapped around him and go soft.

                “The first city I encountered was Dragonstar. Or at least, it had once _been_ Dragonstar. By that time, all that was left of it was nothing but ruins, beggars, murderers, and squatters. You know the hook shaped scar on my back? That’s where I earned it. I was still bleeding while running as far away from that place as I could.”

                Loriel shifted again.

                The Nord felt hyperaware of the Altmer’s clad thigh against his, sitting lazily so he could keep the bottle nestled between his knees on the step below theirs and he swallowed.

                _Pay attention, he’s sitting right next to you!_

                That was also the problem...

                Loriel sucked in a noisy breathe between his teeth and scratched his ribs. “I had to go around the Dragontail Mountains; it would have been suicide for me to cross through them as ill-prepared as I was. I ended up being picked up by a silk-trader’s caravan. I told them my name was Iteldil, I was on a pilgrimage to learn more about the deities of Hammerfell. That excuse worked beyond well to the point that I wished it hadn’t worked at all. My head hurt so much from listening to them try to explain the religion of Hammerfell... They took me all the way to Sentinel. Auri-El bless me, was that city beautiful. I stayed there for eight months, learning how to better survive the desert as well as how to survive any potential raid. I learned how to use a sword properly then, without the anxiety of my father bitching at me. They taught differently there. They made you realize that if you didn’t learn how to fight, you were dead. And I did _not_ want to die. You should have seen my skin though, I was almost bronze. It was gorgeous,” he said and laughed. “I made most of my money for traveling through the country while I was there, mostly through betting on brawls. I never betted more than a day’s wage from working the docks. The Redguards held about the same amount of love as I had for the Thalmor, so I was undeniably safe there but I always felt restless. I couldn’t sit still. Finally, I just up and left. I hadn’t done like I had in Shornhelm. I didn’t make many friends among the locals and they knew my intention wasn’t to stay. It broke no one’s heart that I left. And then one day, I stumbled across what the horrors of civil war really looked like.”

                It was a sobering thought.

                Loriel drained the rest of the bottle before he could continue, allowing himself to roll the material of the container between his hands absently. Some people drank fast and got drunk fast. Some people drank fast and got drunk well after they finished drinking. Because by the time he set down the bottle, a sharp hiccup popped out of Loriel’s lips.

                “Ouch.”

                He blinked wearily and Ulfric shifted beside him, stretching out his legs again.

                He waited for Loriel.

                And he drew a deep breath.

                “Crowns and the Forebears were fighting. Hating each other for some Gods stupid reason, brothers and sisters fighting against each other. Killing each other. _Slaughtering_ each other. I couldn’t… cross the boarder fast enough.”

                His eyes were going glassy and he hid another hiccup behind his hand. Ulfric smelled salt from tears as they started to come forth, Loriel’s mind, addled by the alcohol and sinking hooks into old memories, starting to reel itself into a panic attack as words started to spill out of his lips. His memories and thoughts were less organized as he spoke, the brandy starting to seep into his blood and curving the words of the bard.

                He spoke about Valenwood, about learning archery and getting damn good at it, about the Bosmer family who took him in and the Mer he fell in love with there. He was thinking about marrying when the Thalmor found him.

                He was captured and he was about to be interrogated before he found an opening and took it to start another fire, using the confusion to escape and go back to the Bosmer family, only to find that they had already been executed for their crime of housing him. He fled Valenwood shortly after that, into Elsweyr, where he learned that Moon Sugar made him incredibly ill. He found peace among the Khajiit, who taught him better coping methods for his Legionnaire’s disease before he moved on to Cyrodiil and hid right under the Thalmor’s nose in the redlight district where he found his brother and reconnected with him under the alias of Tori Strid, the idea for the name coming from the local landmarks. He wasn’t in Cyrodill for long before he made his way to Blackmarsh, where he picked up a Khajiit mercenary as a body guard while he crossed the boarder. It was a good thing that he had because the two of them were about a day’s walk from the boarder when Loriel was recognized by the Thalmor and he ran like hell. He didn’t keep a consistent alias while he was in Morrowind, he circled almost the entire country, hopped on boats at the ports to get lost in the confusion, hid in big cities, and then, about two years into the chase, he managed to shake them off for good. And he joined a merchant’s caravan as labor.

                And walked right into Skyrim.

                Where he met Hoag, the Bear of Eastmarch.

                Those bleary eyes looked at him, watery and beautiful and exhausted and _drunk_. His voice had slowly become lethargic all the while he had been talking.

                “I thnk… I should sleep,” he managed to say after a time.

                Ulfric drew a breath.

                He thought Loriel should too.

                As Loriel struggled to his feet, Ulfric had to reach out and grab the Altmer before he fell over, one large hand wrapped around Loriel’s arm and the other at his waist. And Loriel smiled, slow and sweet and lethargic and he leaned against Ulfric as the Nord made him sit on his own bed. He was too drunk to make it down the stairs by himself, and Ulfric liked the way those fingers curled in the quilting of his noble clothes as Loriel asked him to join him.

                And when Ulfric was settled, the bard curled up against the Jarl of Windhelm, he wondered at his luck.

                And he wondered how long it was going to last.


	26. Chapter Twenty-Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just FYI, this is also posted on my Fanfiction account too. Same name, same story. Enjoy. And don't forget to comment please.

                Ulfric had almost forgotten how wonderful it was to wake up twisted up with someone solid and warm.

                Loriel fit just _right_ against his body.

                As he roused himself from sleep, he catalogued all the sensations that he felt, recognizing nearly all of them as an extension of the Altmer.

                He knew that he had one arm draped over Loriel’s waist, the other beneath his neck and fingers curled in the soft strands of hair. He knew that Loriel’s nose was firmly pressed against the Nord’s shoulder. He knew that their legs were tangled together in an almost intimate manner, Loriel’s longer torso making it so that Ulfric could feel his own morning wood pressing up against the other’s abdomen while the bard’s was firmly settled against Ulfric’s thigh.

                At least Loriel wasn’t awake otherwise Ulfric would have felt severely embarrassed by his healthy nocturnal erection.

                The Jarl couldn’t help but yawn once his body had acclimated itself to being conscious.

                And then, he blinked his eyes open.

                He could barely see the way the moonlight reflected on Loriel’s hair, splayed over the pillow, and he wondered over the hour. He and Loriel had no doubt missed dinner for the sake of drinking and a visit into the past of the Altmer, but he never did get an answer to his question though.

                That would have to be something he asked again later, for clarification.

                After Loriel woke up and recovered from the hangover he was without a doubt going to have.

                They would have to work on the letters too.

                He breathed deeply and curled his fingers in that hair.

                Loriel fit just right in his arms.

                He heard a soft, deep breath, felt the shift that came from Loriel’s chest expanding, and Loriel’s legs shifted.

                They untangled from his.

                Straightened.

                A soft shudder went through the Altmer’s body against his.

                He heard a soft set of pops.

                Followed by a sigh.

                And Loriel tucked his head below Ulfric’s jaw.

                He could feel the end of the Altmer’s nose against his throat.

                He could almost feel the heat of his lips against his skin.

                Oh _Talos_ , this was bad.

                There was no more risk of Loriel feeling how _hard_ he was but the sensation brought on by the change in position made him go from a sleepy erection to one that was stiff as steel and straining against his pants.

                This was _bad_.

                He had to move, had to get further away from Loriel because there was no _way_ in Oblivion that he would be able to will away his problem otherwise.

                As Ulfric carefully went about separating himself from the other, there was only one close call with almost waking Loriel up from the way the Altmer’s hair had been caught on the twisted metal bracelet he was still wearing, something Ulfric barely realized before it would have been too late. And the moment he felt the distinct lack of pressure from Loriel’s body, he almost instantly regretted moving.

                It was almost like phantom pain. It wasn’t there but he still felt it.

                Lingering.

                Sitting up properly, Ulfric froze when he saw Loriel shift, only to relax when the bard only stretched out on his stomach on the bed in his absence. Those long fingers curled in the finest tundra cotton sheets in all of Eastmarch.

                And then, he heard a soft groan from the Altmer that went straight to his groin and he remembered exactly _why_ he moved in the first place, forcing himself to stand up and don his fur cloak, quietly leaving the room and descending the stairs. He felt his footsteps slow as he neared Loriel’s room, and he kept walking.

                He wasn’t there.

                He had left him behind, peacefully sleeping in his own bed.

                And the Jarl made his way to a place where he could be alone with nothing more than his thoughts.

                The cool of the Sun’s Height night nipped at him as he leaned against the railing of the palace roof, overlooking his city, and he thought about other things, less pleasurable things than what the brandy had taken the filter away from Loriel’s mouth. Far away from thoughts of what he learned at the Temple of Dibella in Shornhelm, High Rock.

                Loriel was born on the 7th of First Seed. Spring. Under the sign of the Lord. On the day of fresh beginnings. Loriel was 95 now.

                His birthday had been five months ago. The day he had seen Arson on his way to High Hrothgar with the Elder Scroll.

                And where had Loriel been? Probably giving back that encoded lexicon back to whoever had demanded it.

                Ulfric closed his eyes.

                He pulled his thoughts forward a little of Loriel’s life on the Isles.

                Loriel had gone through quite a bit, there on the Isles. He had an overwhelming father who was incredibly controlling and Loriel did a lot to blatantly piss him off, but he also didn’t do a lot to unintentionally anger him as well. He found his love for singing and he defended that love only for his father to strike him and his mother to come to his defense for the first time. He fell in love for the first time only to be left without warning and he was nearly kicked out for coming out to his father as gay (a fact that reminded Ulfric that he might still have a chance). He fell in love with a Thalmor candidate and they had one sea storm of a relationship that ended in a physical fight. And there on the Isles, Legionnaire’s disease sank its claws into the bard.

                He had only been 44.

                Loriel had been living with Legionnaire’s disease since before Ulfric had been born.

                Living with it for so long made him callused to repeats, if his surprisingly quick recovery was anything to show for it.

                He had spent a year in Shornhelm, learning how to survive, and eight months in Sentinel, learning how to fight. It was there in Hammerfell where Loriel’s hatred of civil war stemmed. And then he had come to Valenwood, where he learned archery, and where he had also fallen in love. He might have gotten married if the Thalmor hadn’t caught up to him and killed his beloved and the Mer’s entire family as well. That had no doubt brought a new experience of Legionnaire’s disease for the Altmer. And then he fled to Elsweyr, where he learned how to cope with the disease, and finally, eight years after leaving the Summerset Isles, he hid himself right under the noses of the Thalmor in Cyrodiil where he met with his brother and they found relief and comfort in knowing that the other was safe. He wandered through Black Marsh and finally entered Morrowind, where he lead the Thalmor on a two year long wild chase before he lost them.

                And sixteen years after the day he had left, Loriel walked right into Skyrim.

                Loriel had been so drunk by the time he spoke of Valenwood that there wasn’t many details to the story. He had doubled back on his thoughts a couple different times, lamented over some unimportant parts, skipped over details that might have been important.

                But all those sixteen years before he came to Skyrim were an example of how strongly Loriel had fought to survive and escape from the Thalmor.

                And here they were, 34, 35 years after the day Loriel met Hoag.

                Friends.

                And the Jarl wanted him more than he had ever wanted anyone or anything before in his life.

                Opening his eyes, he could see the pink hues starting to touch on the edge of the horizon to the east.

                Perhaps Laronen would be awake too.

                Tucking away all that he had learned and thankfully absent of his sign of the morning, Ulfric descended the trapdoor and into the kitchen.

                Before he left the kitchen, he got a glass of cider that Sifnar had just warmed before he made his way to pay Loriel’s brother a visit, the Mer mozying about his room when the Jarl entered with an unlit pipe held between his lips and his long hair dragging almost all the way to the base of his spine. Absently, those amber eyes looked up from doing his cataloging of what he might need for the day, and a slow, playful smile came to his lips.

                “So. How was last night?”

                Fuck.

                Laronen had been spending too much time around Galmar if he thought that this early in the morning was an appropriate time to try and tease Ulfric and the Jarl wasn’t going to have any of it.

                He gave the healer a flat look before he sank into a chair at the small table in the room. “Your brother drank an entire bottle of vintage brandy by himself and passed out, that’s how last night went. Do you have a hangover tonic?”

                And Laronen’s amused expression died a swift death. “You have got to be pulling my leg. Seriously?”

                Ulfric only lofted a brow without any further statement.

                “You didn’t even _kiss_ him?”

                He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose to stave off his headache, “You’ve been spending too much time with my Housecarl…”

                Laronen groaned, muttered something about owing Ysrarald money, and went about gathering various ingredients to make the requested tonic. “Please tell me you’re going to tell him soon. It’s killing me to keep my mouth shut every time he pays me a visit.”

                “You’ll continue to keep your mouth shut if you know what’s good for you, elf,” Ulfric absently threatened.

                “I know plenty of what’s good for me, Jarl Ulfric-”

                “Then shut up.”

                It was too early to be having this conversation.

                Ulfric settled his face in both hands while Laronen went about keeping his life a long one, and finally, after a long period of time, Laronen put a small bottle in front of Ulfric. “Half and half with water. It will help with the nausea and his headache. He probably won’t be able to stomach anything until around lunch if he had an entire bottle of his favorite by himself,” the healer instructed.

                Ulfric left without any further word, wandering back to the North wing where he got to be face to face with Galmar who was wearing a shit-eating grin.

                Absolutely not.

                Ulfric headed off the conversation with a stern “No,” at his housecarl before he could open his mouth.

                Galmar rolled his eyes and huffed.

                “And here I thought you wouldn’t miss an opportunity,” he prodded.

                “I am not going to take advantage of anyone as deep in their cup as Loriel was yesterday.”

                “So what happened? You holed up in your room with him, with a bottle of old brandy, missed dinner, and nothing happened?”

                “It’s vintage brandy,” Ulfric corrected, “And yes, nothing happened. He drank, he talked, he fell asleep, and that was the end of it.”

                The housecarl almost sulked when Ysrarald came out of his room and Galmar fished something out of his pocket before tossing it to the military commander.

                It looked like Ysrarald won two bets yesterday, one from Laronen and the other from Galmar.

                “What exactly did you bet on?” Ulfric inquired.

                “If you’d kiss him,” Ysrarald answered, counting out the coin, “You’re short by ten.”

                “Damn you to Oblivion,” Galmar absently cursed and tossed the last ten coins.

                Ysrarald was milking this for all it was worth.

                “So you were the one who betted that I wouldn’t?”

                “I betted that Loriel would get too drunk for your honor to let you.”

                Ulfric stared at him for a moment before pinching the bridge of his nose.

                “It’s too early to be having this conversation,” he grumbled and walked away from them both.

                Ulfric assumed that Loriel was awake by the way he was moaning in misery, his head tucked under the pillow and his arms thrown over top of it to try to block out sound.

                He was impressed by Loriel’s lack of turning his stomach inside out.

                And quietly, he pulled off his boots and put aside his cloak before pouring a goblet half full of water and filling it the rest of the way with the tonic, turning the contents of the goblet a dark red wine hue.

                And then he sat down on the edge of the bed.

                “I got something to help,” Ulfric said, lightly resting a hand on Loriel’s back, right between his shoulders.

                There was a slight sound and Loriel lifted the pillow a bit, exposing one eye to the Jarl.

                He looked miserable.

                Fitting for how heavily he indulged in the potent brandy.

                And Loriel covered his eye with his hand before he brought his head out from under the pillow and slowly sat up, wincing and looking like a right mess.

                “I feel like I got kicked by a giant…” Loriel murmured as he took the goblet in both hands and took a small sip, wrinkling his nose. The tonic didn’t taste good, Ulfric assumed, but he continued to drink it. “How much did I drink?”

                “The entire bottle of vintage. How much do you remember talking about?”

                Loriel looked at him in misery, “Don’t ask me to remember,” he groaned before finishing the goblet and falling back onto the bed, dragging the pillow over his face again.

                Ulfric watched Loriel’s chest rise and fall in exaggeration and he thought about getting up, but something told him to wait.

                Just a little bit.

                He heard the heavy sigh.

                “Did I talk about Vilya Thromus?”

                “Yes.”

                He huffed. “That’s as far as I remember.”

                The rest was probably a blacked out blur.

                Ulfric had a few nights back when he didn’t know how to monitor his drinking habits that were blacked out blurs and all of them had been unintentional. Loriel had done it on purpose.

                “You made it as far as meeting my father and you fell asleep.”

                “So I’m still not done. Great…” he muttered. “At least I got through the hard parts …”

                So Loriel did intend to finish what he started.

                Hopefully without the influence of alcohol to loosen his tongue.

                There was an awkwardly long pause before Loriel sighed and sat up, clutching his head from moving too fast before he drew his feet to the edge of the bed and scooted himself to sit beside Ulfric briefly, his hand coming to rest on Ulfric’s thigh for a moment, Ulfric staring down at the appendage in surprise, his heart in his throat, before Loriel moved his hand to the bed and struggled to stand.

                Ulfric caught his wrist before he fell.

                “Where are you going?”

                “The privy,” Loriel told him flatly before he slipped his wrist from Ulfric’s grip and tottered a bit before Ulfric stood and caught him before he fell.

                And under Ulfric’s guidance, the two of them went to the privy where Loriel could do his business and Ulfric wandered to give Loriel some privacy there. And when he came back, Loriel stepped out, looking pale and clammy and miserable. So miserable in fact that all Ulfric could think of that might make Loriel feel better was a hot bath.

                And Loriel was grateful for the idea.

                He was still so unsteady on his feet that Ulfric was certain that Loriel would fall over if he didn’t stay and help Loriel, and Loriel was clinging to him in such a way that it made Ulfric really ignore the fact that he could have sent a maid to go get Loriel’s brother to help him with his bath.

                No, when the bath was finished being heated and drawn, his clean cotton night clothes that had frequently been worn during Loriel’s initial recovery, Ulfric stayed with Loriel, doing his best to not drag his eyes over the elf’s body while he was undressing.

                “You don’t have to stay,” Loriel said for perhaps the twelfth time.

                “I let you get that drunk, you’re my responsibility,” Ulfric said for perhaps the twelfth time.

                And Loriel relented before he held onto Ulfric’s arm, the Nord’s other hand on his bare ribs, and Loriel dropped his pants.

                Ulfric did his best to think about politics, Galmar nagging at him about this or that, the taste of spoiled meat that had been accidentally cooked on the last patrol he had been on, all before Loriel stepped into the bath, a soft gasp that interrupted those disappointing thoughts with the mental image of Ulfric’s mouth at home on that smooth collarbone, and Loriel sank into the bath.

                And Ulfric had to sit down so Loriel could’t see the way his pants were straining.

                For a while, Ulfric only listened to the soft sound of water as Loriel soaked.

                And then Loriel’s voice broke the silence.

                “Skyrim was something totally different from what I imagined it would be. I imagined that the entire country would be covered in snow and that I would probably freeze to death before the Thalmor caught up to me again. Dying honestly sounded better than being caught by them. But instead of bitter cold and snow, I got to find a place that impressed me. The first place I stumbled into for cover from bandits was actually a Dwemer ruin. That left a big learning impression on me. The Dwemer were impressive creators. And then there was the Snow Elves. I spent a lot of time wondering what all the Dwemer did to them to turn them into the Falmer we know today. Forgotten Vale has a lot of answers to that question. But, moving on,” he said and gave an absent wave of his hand, “the first place I really came to after meeting your father was actually Riften. Divines, even back then the Black-Briars had their fingers in everyone’s pies. I stayed only long enough to make friends where friends mattered before I left and made my way west. I remember thinking about doing a pilgrimage up to High Hrothgar back then but I eventually decided not to. I remember Helgen though. Back then it had been a nice little hamlet. Falkreath’s apothecary is certainly a new addition. I ended up getting rescued during a Forsworn raid before I ended up being brought to Markarth to recover. The arrow almost ruined my shoulder, but the medicine woman in the city was one hell of a miracle worker healing up that wound,” Loriel said.

                The Altmer was tracing his fingers over the scar that curled along his shoulder, his hair wet and a droplet of water hanging off the end of his nose.

                Those fingers lingered at the burn.

                “From Markarth I went up to Solitude. I wanted _so_ badly to enroll at the College while I was there, but I didn’t. I kept my head down. I was there for six months before I was traveling through the Pale and got attacked by the vampires. My leg got ripped open when I fell, right before Isran and Celann showed up. There was a lot of blood before Celann patched me up and fought with Isran about bringing me back.”

                And Ulfric looked at him curiously, their eyes meeting, and Loriel shifted in the tub to set one foot on the edge of the tub and then lifted his leg for Ulfric to see.

                Loriel’s leg was not as perfect as Ulfric had imagined it to be.

                He was almost as scarred up on his lower half as he was on his upper half.

                The razor-thin scars that had started at his ribs extended all the way down to his ankle, _tic tic tic_ like tally marks. Every single one of them evenly spaced. All of them the same length. Why did Loriel have those scars? There was a burn that extended from his knee and went up his leg, disappearing past the lip of the tub. A splotch of deep color extended along the tendon at his ankle, the Achilles. And there was the scar that he was talking about.

                A deep, jagged mark that curved along the muscle of his calf. And through the ugly mark, a scar that Ulfric recognized from surgery ran.

                “It didn’t want to heal right, even with magic. They ended up finding a Dunmer healer who could do surgery to correct the muscle growth, make it heal right. They didn’t have to do that, but I suppose that’s why Stendaar is the god of mercy. They showed me mercy and kindness. Although they left me with Isran as my babysitter,” and Loriel let out a bark of laughter as he lowered his leg, shaking his head. “I had a long way to go to be able to use my leg properly, but that healer never got the chance to see the result. Rumor of the impending war reached my ears and I bolted. I found a bandit camp, stole their horse, and rode the poor beast all the way to Windhelm. I had only _heard_ about Solstheim once before I jumped on the boat, gave up almost every Septim I had to my name to get me there without questions. My leg was so inflamed by the time that I got there that I thought I had ruined the healer’s hard work, I could barely even drag myself out of the boat without the captain of the ship’s help, it hurt so bad to put any weight on it.”

                Loriel shook his head and then stretched himself out, arms crossing at the lip of the tub and he leaned on his hands, almost pouting. He had stubble growing in, not enough to be very noticeable but the lighter shade around his mouth drew Ulfric’s attention.

                “The apothecary said I had just stressed the muscle while it was still recovering. I felt Gods-be-damned stupid. A couple months later, word of the war finally came. Solstheim was politely being ignored. And I was grateful. I had taken up an apprenticeship under the apothecary during that time, and the owner of the Retching Netch let me sing to have money for myself while I was recovering. One out of every five Septims I made went to him, plus he let me board for free. I probably didn’t leave Raven Rock to explore for almost a year. And then, as though they were celebrating my recovery with me, the Ash-Spawn started attacking Raven Rock. I owed a debt to the place and so I protected it with the guards. I ended up rescuing the captain of the guard while he had been investigating the direction the attacks had been coming from. He told me that the attacks had been becoming more and more organized, like something was _controlling_ the Ash-Spawn. And from there, Captain Veleth and I put an end to the attack. They were being _organized_ by General Falx Carius. _The_ General Falx Carius. From the third _era_. Someone had implanted a heartstone into his body and it had reanimated him. He was so set on his duty in death, when Solstheim had still belonged to Skyrim, that he was still trying to accomplish it in his second life. I didn’t really know what it was like to have a brother in arms before Captain Veleth and I worked together. We were one heck of an odd pair, but we worked well together. He was firm but he wasn’t… awful. He knew when to push and when to back off. I respected him a lot. I still respect him. He’s a good man.”

                “Were you interested in him?” Ulfric couldn’t help asking.

                The question startled Loriel.

                “What? No! Divines no!” he flushed darkly. “Veleth was practically married to his work as it was and he wasn’t my type.”

                Ulfric felt his lips curl. “So you have a type.”

                Loriel scowled at Ulfric, his blush going so far as to even reach his ears.

                The Jarl grinned.

                He _did_.

                And he chuckled, shooting Loriel a playful smile before he drawled out, “Teasing. Continue.”

                Groaning from the Nord’s antics, Loriel shook his head, hiding his face in his hands as he muttered something in Dunmeri before he let his hands fall back into the water with a small splash.

                He shot Ulfric an indignant glare and Ulfric admired how red the tips of his ears were.

                Finally, after huffing a little, the bathing Altmer continued, his cheeks still red.

                “After I helped Veleth with the Ash-Spawn problem, he trusted me with a much more prominent issue. The plot for the assassination of the First Councilor, Lleril Morvayn of House Redoran, a kind and just Mer who looked out for his people in Raven Rock. The plot was all started because when Oblivion Crisis happened, the House Hlaalu was the only great house that supported the Empire and lost its status. It had once been the greatest House before House Redoran stepped up and took over the position. A failed assassination attempt on First Councilor Morvayn lead to the second attempt by a descendant. And I stopped that.”

                “And you were given the house as a reward.”

                Loriel nodded, “I’ve told you this story before.”

                “Maybe once,” Ulfric said with a chuckle.

                Loriel rolled his eyes and drew in a deep breath.

                “After I got the house, I started traveling around the island. I had a place of permanence, a place to keep my things, and I started adventuring again. I met the Nords of Thirsk and the Skaal. Can’t say I really cared for the Thirsk, but I loved spending time with the Skaal. My skill with taking care of game was rudimentary at best before I made myself at home among the villagers. They taught me how to use every piece of a kill. I lost almost a year up with them, learning everything that they were willing to teach me. I made a lot of friends among the community. One day, I’ll go back. See how my old friends are doing. Children I knew back then probably have children of their own by now. Being around the Skaal though, it made me think of Skyrim and how dearly I missed the Nords. So, after being in Solstheim for ten years, I came back.”

                And he looked to Ulfric, a soft smile on his lips.

                “And the rest of the story will have to wait for later. My fingers are _pruny_ and I’m _cold_.”

                Ulfric couldn’t help but humorously smile from the way Loriel grinned and wrinkled his nose at him.

                Shaking his head, Ulfric offered Loriel the towel and the elf thanked him, touseling his long hair with the fabric while Ulfric stood to give Loriel a little privacy.

                Only to jump sharply when he heard a sharp _crack_ and a snap against his backside, whirling around to see Loriel getting out of the tub with an impish grin, his cheeks flushed a little.

                Menace.

                “I’ll let that slide just once, elf,” Ulfric said, giving Loriel a pointed look while avoiding letting his gaze drop any lower than Loriel’s clavicle when the cold air brought gooseflesh to his skin. The elf sneered while wrapping the towel around his waist.

                “Or what?” He said challengingly, waggling his brows. “You’ll punish me?”

                Fuck.

                Ulfric cheeks _burned_ at the thought.

                “Don’t tease,” Ulfric managed to say, looking away.

                He heard the elf’s soft sigh before he padded over to where his clothes were. When Ulfric allowed himself to glance at him again, Loriel was pulling his pants up his thighs.

                There were several scars along the strong muscles there and along his hips, the even one along the curve of his backside.

                A few of them…

                Looked like bear claws.

                And the deepest one was something else entirely.

                What…

                Loriel looked up while pulling the hem over his ass and pulled the draw strings.

                “See something interesting?” he asked, dragging his fingers through his hair and away from his face.

                Ulfric swallowed, feeling guilty getting caught looking. But, he hadn’t been admiring.

                Yet.

                “The scars,” he said after a moment. “What are they from?”

                Loriel blinked and ran his fingers over the scars through his pants, well known to his mind that he didn’t need to see them to know where they were. “Bear,” he said, his digits stroking over the four deep grooves, “bandits,” he traced two different scars, one that was mid-thigh and the other along his backside, “and a dragon.”

                Ulfric’s mouth went dry.

                “How many have you encountered?” he asked.

                And Loriel closed his eyes.

                “More than I wished I honestly had.”

                He was moving to pick up his shirt before Ulfric stepped over to him.

                And the Altmer jumped when he felt the Jarl’s hand on his side.

                “And what about these?” he asked.

                He could feel Loriel’s pulse pick up through their skins.

                Or maybe that was his own?

                Loriel knew which scars Ulfric was referring to without looking.

                And he swallowed, eyes not meeting the Nord’s.

                “Self-done.”

                His throat tightened and he felt anger rise in his throat.

                Loriel had done those to _himself_.

                “Why?” He heard himself almost demand.

                And Loriel looked at him, almost angry.

                “I wasn’t in a good state back then. You wouldn’t understand.”

                “Then _make_ me understand.”

                The bard gritted his teeth. “Because I felt _empty_. Because I felt so _dead_ inside my chest that I just wanted to feel _something_. So I cut. I cut and I kept cutting until I didn’t feel like I needed to cut any more. And I haven’t felt that need since I made the last one. Do you understand, Ulfric, or do I have to get my brother to explain what heart sickness is to you?” he snapped, bitter, and angry.

                And Ulfric’s anger slipped away from him like water through his fingers.

                Heart sickness.

                He had done all that, every line, from ribs to ankle, in a fit of depression.

                Heart sickness was something entirely different than Legionnaire’s disease, although at times, they looked identical. But Legionnaire’s disease rarely brought someone to kill themselves. Heart sickness though…

                Ulfric had lost two friends to it over the years.

                Loriel had heart sickness.

                “You want to know the answer to your question, Ulfric? _No_. That’s the answer. The Thalmor didn’t break me. They can’t break what’s already _broken_.”

                And he picked up his shirt and hurriedly left the bathroom, leaving Ulfric there in silence with nothing more than his thoughts.

                _“Can you tell me what’s going on inside your head?”_ Ulfric had asked and Loriel’s expression turned into sorrow.

                _“Ask me something I can answer,”_ Loriel had replied, looking away.

                And Ulfric asked a different question, the Thalmor documents almost burning him through his clothes.

                _“Did the Thalmor break you back there?”_

                And now he had the answer.

                Loriel hadn’t wanted to tell him.

                He wanted to delay as long as he could from giving Ulfric the answer.

                And all Ulfric had to ask about was the scars.

                _They can’t break what’s already broken_.

                And Ulfric remembered the last look Loriel wore before he left.

                Loriel looked ashamed.

                Loriel thought that he was broken.


	27. Chapter Twenty-Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just FYI, this is also posted on my Fanfiction account too. Same name, same story. Enjoy. And don't forget to comment please.  
> Sorry it's taken me so long to get this chapter out, my neighbors have been shooting off fireworks when I usually have been writing and it made it very difficult to focus on the story! Thank the Divine that stupid holiday is over!

                With Loriel’s hasty retreat, Ulfric was left with a lot to think about.

                Everything Loriel had told him had made him unwilling to try to invade Loriel’s space again, something he had already done twice in the last twenty-four hours, the first being with the question that made Loriel wish to delay the truth and the second with the question that exposed it.

                It was now bordering on being painfully obvious to the Jarl pretty much _everything_ Loriel had been avoiding. All the things he didn’t _want_ to remember. All the things that _hurt_ to remember. All the things he actively knew and didn’t want to tell. It all boiled down to Loriel not wanting to reveal that one weakness to Ulfric, that one secret that up until now only Laronen, and possibly the absent third brother, had been aware of.

                But it made sense to the Jarl of Windhelm.

                It also made sense why Loriel and Arson had seemed to know each other so intimately.

                They understood each other through their mutual heart sickness.

                Loriel had pretty much said it without saying it when he had spoken about Arson the night he played that song, the night he wept in front of Ulfric for the Dragonborn. Arson had been fighting with his own heart sickness, feeling like he would not be missed if he died but at the same time not wanting to die. He had spent his life just trying to survive the monsters inside his own head and there Skyrim was, asking him to lay down his life to defeat monsters of a different kind.

                Ulfric had to wonder how much of Arson’s final fight had been with which monster…

                And Loriel, as the Nord later learned from his brother, had been living with heart sickness longer than even Legionnaire’s disease had been settled in his bones. Ever since Reyes left apparently. He would sometimes go through long stretches of emptiness and sadness, and sometimes the sickness wouldn’t rear its head for years.

                It made Ulfric wonder if _he_ had been the one to blame for the state the Thalmor found him in.

                He had uprooted Loriel from the place he called home that evening after the peace council and left him to the wolves.

                And it made Ulfric feel all the more responsible for the Altmer’s wellbeing.

                It probably was his fault.

                If he hadn’t, maybe Loriel would have been more careful.

                If he hadn’t, maybe Loriel would have just come back home.

                And the more he thought about it, the more he felt like it _was_ his fault.

                So many things were his fault, and it all started with the moment he decided that challenging the boy-king Torygg for the throne. He could have found another way. He could have politically asked him as a Jarl to the new High King to break Skyrim away from the Empire rather than issuing the challenge. Torygg was still a young man, and High King Istlod had not raised him to be spoiled. Torygg might have chosen to humor him and listen. He was hardly stupid.

                If Ulfric had done that instead, perhaps he would have never met Loriel.

                Or perhaps he would have.

                If Skyrim had claimed independence from the Empire, they could have pressured the Thalmor into leaving, or at least tried. Loriel would have still been living in Solitude, still calling himself Mithnar, still singing for the College, still safe and happy. Perhaps during the times Ulfric visited Solitude, he would have stumbled across the Altmer, confronted him about who he was, learned that he was not who he thought he was, and perhaps Ulfric would have been humble enough to apologize. But beyond that, Ulfric wasn’t certain that he would have been so close with Loriel as he was now, so _attached_ as he was now, if he had not issued the challenge. They would have known each other briefly, and that would have likely been the end of it.

                And Ulfric would have continued to live as a lonely and bitter old man.

                Galmar was his friend but the man was hardly a suitable replacement for a lover.

                That was something that Ulfric would admit that he had been wanting in absence for a long time.

                A thought that was tossed to the wind the moment he decided that fighting Torygg for the throne was the only answer.

                A thought that had only been returned to the surface of his thoughts with that absentminded first chat with Arson.

                A thought that had absently settled itself in his mind after that first time on the bridge, the chill of the day making his Altmer’s ears, nose, and fingertips red, and took root when he started to lust for him back at Candlehearth Hall, less than half-dressed for the day and excited over the translation of a song, and took to full bloom weeks before he realized how close he had been to losing Loriel for good.

                It all started with Torygg and ended with Loriel.

                Loriel had already told him he forgave him long ago, but Ulfric wondered if Torygg would have forgiven him for his own stupidity.

                If Arson would have as well.

                Wordlessly, he drew the Amulet of Arkay from its chest and he bowed his head.

                He had questions, ones that he wanted answers to, but also ones that he feared he would never receive answers to.

                Some of them were questions of forgiveness. To Torygg and to Arson and to all the men and women who had died in his name. Some of them were questions as to what he should do. To people much wiser than himself. Some of them were questions as to if he was going down the right path or if he was making a mistake. To souls he felt would know the answer.

                His father.

                Jorgen Windcaller.

                Talos himself.

                Arson.

                He wished he knew the answers himself.

                It was the shift of color at his doorway that caught his attention from the haze of his meditation and prayer.

                Soft creams clothes offset by golden tones of skin and hair.

                With amber eyes.

                And Ulfric watched as Loriel brought the door to a close behind him, one side of his hair flat and the other wild, a sheer sign that Loriel had taken a nap sometime after he had left Ulfric’s company in the bathing room, a tray in his hands.

                Was it already time for the evening meal? He barely remembered touching his lunch, still sitting on his desk, cold and forgotten. But that wasn’t important to Ulfric. The one thing that demanded Ulfric’s undivided attention was Loriel and the way he looked at him with those soft, almost sad eyes, eyes that never left his as the Altmer made his approach, and the connection was only broken when he turned to sit down beside Ulfric on the edge of the bed, placing the steaming meal tray between the two of them like a barrier.

                And for a moment, they just sat in silence, both of them not looking at each other, the only sound in the room being their quiet breathing and the warm crackle of the fire from his hearth.

                The beads of the amulet felt warm beneath his fingers.

                “I’m sorry for losing my temper. Sometimes I forget I don’t need to run any more, that I can afford to trust people now.”

                It was an apology he didn’t need to give.

                “You had every right to be upset.”

                “Just because I had the right doesn’t mean you deserved it though. I’m still sorry.”

                And it was quiet again between them.

                This silence though was awkward, filled with thoughts that neither seemed to be able to put to words and express aloud, and when Ulfric breathed deeply to try to find something to say, he could smell the aroma of the food on the tray and his stomach growled mournfully at him.

                Whatever he had been thinking about saying was dashed away with embarrassment, although that embarrassment receded a little when he heard Loriel’s breathless laugh that made him look.

                Loriel had taken to covering his mouth with his hand, his cheeks curved and full with mirth, gently flushed.

                The sight made Ulfric’s more mournful thoughts ease and he couldn’t help a faint curve of a smile reach his mouth.

                “You should eat,” Loriel said, looking to him with those eyes, trying and failing in restraining his smile and Ulfric gave an amused huff.

                “If I do, would you humor me with an answer?”

                “Even if you don’t, I still would,” Loriel replied calmly.

                The willingness to answer a question he had yet to ask had surprised him. He wondered… Had Loriel ever declined to answer any of his questions? He couldn’t remember. He always gave him an answer, even if it was as simple as _ask me something I can answer_ , like he had before he asked that last question before lunch the day before.

                Ulfric drew the tray onto his lap and took his time with cutting into the attractive chunk of meat on his plate, trying to find his words. Well, not really find them, he knew the gist of what he _wanted_ to say, it was just a matter of wording them properly. Tactfully. If there was any way to be tactful with the question he wanted to ask.

                Finally, he settled on simplicity.

                “What is it like, living with that sort of heartache?”

                He could see Loriel was still looking at him, but he couldn’t see what expression he was making. Ulfric imagined he would be frowning. That he would not want to answer that sort of question, but not too long after, after Ulfric had taken his first bite of food, he heard the soft sigh of resignation and felt the slight jar in the mattress, Loriel flopping back down against the bed at his side.

                He wanted to glance.

                He chewed and swallowed instead.

                “A lot of people seem to have this _idea_ that having heart sickness is kind of a constant thing, that you have to look or behave a certain way in order to have it, like it’s as obvious as being an Altmer among Nord society. ‘How can you act so happy when you have heart sickness?’ ‘I bet you don’t really have heart sickness,’” he mocked in two surprisingly different voices, making Ulfric wonder what other voices Loriel could pull off as a bard, “Like someone with heart sickness is depressed all the time. I know that there are some people with it who look the stereotype. Some of those people live a long time, just being known as being sad. Some people’s manifest itself in the form of being tired all the time. That’s how mine started anyway, feeling tired. I knew something was wrong but it wasn’t until I got worse symptoms that I talked to Laronen and his restoration tutor about it, to find out what was wrong with me. There were times when it would go away, just fade into the wind and disappear, sometimes for weeks, sometimes for years. Whenever I have episodes of it, I usually just feel like I’m wandering through a fog inside my head. I feel unsteady in my own heart. Sometimes it’s a real bad hollow feeling, like I’m just… void of emotions. Like I can’t feel anything. I think those times are worse than the times when I feel nothing but sadness. At least with sadness I feel like I’m still breathing, that I’m still alive. But… Like when I made those scars, I just want to feel something, that even pain is better than feeling nothing. But… there’s the people with heart sickness who suffer so much on the inside that they just want it all to end. I’ve thought about that. Thought about it. I got lucky though. The healers in Elsweyr are good at crawling into the minds of those who are suffering and putting salve on the wound before it can fester into suicidal thoughts. I’m thankful for that. I like living too much.”

                “I’m thankful for that too. I like you being alive.”

                Ulfric had just taken another forkful of food when he felt a soft pressure at the small of his back and he looked over his shoulder to Loriel, still lounging on the bed, one hand is curled on his stomach, the other reaching out to him, resting against his back. He was looking at him with those eyes. Soft. Gentle. Kind.

                Just as the words he spoke were.

                “I like you being alive too. So don’t go dying in this war of yours. I want to keep you.”

                The words made him swallow his emotions thickly, right along with his food so he could answer.

                “I won’t.”

                And they looked to each other with nothing but peacefulness between them before Ulfric asked, “Is it as much like Legionnaire’s disease as I’ve heard?”

                “Legionnaire’s is a little bit more, at least for me it is. I had heart sickness long enough to tell the difference. Hard to stay focused. Hard to will yourself to eat sometimes. Some days it’s hard to be around people, and doing things you like sometimes feel impossible. It’s a different kind of exhausted sleeplessness, though. It’s a different sort of trauma, the quiet kind. It’s not loud like Legionnaire’s. It’s not colorful.”

                “Living with both sounds awful.”

                “I don’t know. For me, sometimes, when I was going through bad episodes, I would almost look forward to my next episode of Legionnaire’s, getting me all keyed up for a little bit. It would be like taking a big gulp of fresh air right before going back under the water, enough sensation to know you’re alive and fighting while you feel like you’re dying.”

                “Were you going through an episode while you were with the Thalmor?” Ulfric asked.

                And those eyes saddened a little.

                That was answer enough.

                “Was it my fault?”

                And Loriel regarded the Jarl of Windhelm quietly, his amber eyes flicking over his face, skipping across his features, mouth, eyes, nose, whatever else they seemed to see while Loriel thought for his answer.

                “No. It was already there.”

                “But I didn’t help the way you were feeling.”

                He could still see the expressions Loriel wore that day, the hurt in his eyes as Ulfric turned away. He had looked scared amidst the exhaustion of chasing down two men on horseback.

                “No, you hadn’t.”

                Ulfric let his eyes drop, feeling sorrow in his chest.

                “But—”

                The word caught his attention, and he looked back at Loriel.

                “—You were the one who made me realize I wasn’t drowning any more, the morning after the storm.”

                _His_ elf was looking at him with such gentle intensity in his eyes that it was like looking at candlelight.

                Warm.

                Divines, he wanted to tell him.

                The reference to that fateful night brought another question to Ulfric’s mind.

                “The night of the storm, why did you come here? You could have gone anywhere to feel safe from the storm.”

                The silence whispered volumes in the room, the question drawing surprise to Loriel’s expression. It was that silence that so greatly opposed the wind and the rain and the lightning and the thunder of that night so long ago, that night that held noises that echoed as loud as any Thu’um Shouted from the Throat of the World.

                It was a question he wanted to know the answer to, one he had been craving to know since the night it happened.

                Loriel could have gone anywhere.

                So why did his bard come to his room instead?

                Those eyes softened with thought though, that mouth framed by pale blond stubble forming something soft and gentle. The Jarl could see the way those eyelashes trembled around his half-lidded eyes, and how the skin of his cheeks turned a hue of rose gold, but it was the smile that came after that modest blush that threatened to take his breath away, followed by words that were stronger than any physical blow Loriel could have struck Ulfric with.

                “Because when I think of safety, I think of you.”

                Ulfric was safety to Loriel.

                And that thought was more than he could have ever asked for.

                How easily Loriel could wretch him around inside his head, make him willing to forgive himself for his own stupidity and impulsiveness and set his heart on fire in an instant. How easily he loved Loriel and how difficult it was to love him in silence.

                He couldn’t wait to confess the truth.

                There was quiet again, and Loriel’s gaze dropped shyly before he sat up. “I think I’ve delayed you long enough from us working on those letters of ours. I’ll meet you in my brother’s room so we can work on the drafts, alright?” he asked as he stood up and Ulfric nodded in reply, grateful for the reminder that there was business to attend to that wouldn’t take care of itself. The sooner they got the messages out, the sooner they would get them back, and the sooner they got them back, the sooner they could request an audience with Tullius.

                The sooner they spoke to Tullius, the sooner Ulfric could tell Loriel how he felt.

                After Loriel closed the door behind him, Ulfric turned his full attention to his meal, something for which his stomach was grateful for. His bard’s return visit had given him some peace of mind, pacifying the turmoil that had settled into his mind hours before and it also made him feel like some of his questions he had been asking for the dead had been answered.

                It felt like a peace offering from the Divines.

                A little sign that he was doing alright.

                When the contents of the tray were gone and Ulfric felt full, he set the tray with the one from lunch, stacking the dishes politely, and he collected a couple empty scrolls of paper before heading down to Laronen’s humble little office.

                Loriel was scowling as he wrote in charcoal, making notes as his ex-Thalmor brother gave him information that he thought should be included. Neither looked up when he entered, and Loriel was focused on his work, his handwriting not necessarily as neat and polished as it had been the day Ulfric and he had worked on translating the song, but it was legible. It was only notes.

                Laronen was giving too many details though.

                All the details would distract from the real message.

                “This isn’t like your Thalmor documents,” Ulfric spoke up, coming to the other side of Loriel from his brother, “It doesn’t have to be detailed. This is a political letter, you need to grab the reader’s attention and give enough information to make them want to make a decision without leaving too much or not enough up in the air.”

                Laronen frowned at him and he heard Loriel breathe, “This is the difference between an archivist and a politician.”

                Now the bard was looking at his brother with a pointed scowl.

                “Thanks for making my hand cramp up jotting _notes_ of all things.”

                And the healer rolled his eyes.

                “I thought you were a bard, you’re supposed to spend a lot of time writing.”

                “I’m a _bard_ , I usually write two pages of lyrics and musical notation in a _day_ , not two pages of detailed notes given vocally in an _hour_ ,” he snapped, tossing his chunk of charcoal at his brother.

                Ulfric chuckled as the piece bounced off Laronen’s chest, leaving him with a smudge of black on his shirt, and Ulfric picked up the charcoal from where it landed on the desk. “I’ll write. Let me look over what you have written already,” he said and Loriel was more than grateful to sacrifice his seat to the Jarl.

                While Ulfric focused the brunt of his attention on Loriel’s notes that were dictated by his brother, he could smell Laronen’s tobacco pipe as soon as it was lit and he could almost feel the black cloud of disgust radiating from Loriel in response to his brother’s smoking.

                “Please put that out, it’s distracting. And you don’t have a window to bring in good airflow, so you shouldn’t be smoking in here anyway. I thought you would know better than that, healer,” Ulfric stated, almost scolding as he crossed out a couple lines of useless information.

                He could only imagine the expressions on both brothers’ faces. Loriel no doubt looking pleased and from the way Laronen huffed and the scent of tobacco being eaten up by the hearth, he was probably fixing Ulfric with a scowl.

                He crossed out another line of useless information.

                By the time he finished the two pages, there was only three full lines of text and twenty other locations throughout the parchment that weren’t cut through with a swift strike of charcoal. Laronen had gone overboard with unnecessary information.

                And with clean parchment, Ulfric began to dictate his own information with his neat handwriting, Loriel leaning against the table and admiring his script.

                “If you weren’t a Jarl, your penmanship would be well demanded by the college,” he complimented.

                “I think the college is already suffering by your own absence on all matters, including penmanship,” Ulfric replied.

                “You haven’t even seen me write nicely yet.”

                “I look forward to being pleasantly surprised when I get to see your final draft then.”

                “Stop flirting, you two,” Laronen chirped in.

                Both of them stopped, Ulfric’s cheeks warming, and they slowly looked over at the smirking healer.

                “Laronen, don’t make me tell Nilsine you’ve been asking around for an Amulet of Mara,” Loriel easily threatened, his brother’s face slowly turning a shade of crimson, sputtering at the words his brother put into his mouth, and Ulfric chuckled, glancing at Loriel to see his own smug look at his small victory.

                The bard was mildly blushing as well though.

                “You know damn well I’m not looking for one.”

                “But you are infatuated with her,” Loriel smirked and Laronen scowled.

                “I’m not going to ask her. She deserves a good man, not someone like me.”

                “Perhaps you should let her be the judge of that. Maybe she doesn’t want a good man, maybe she just wants you,” Loriel stated with a shrug and a smile. “Tell her how you feel. The worst that could happen is she declines.”

                The same could be said for Ulfric’s own infatuation…

                Laronen shook his head, hiding his face in his hand. “We have things more important than my love life to take care of at present, so can we focus?”

                Ulfric rolled his eyes and returned to his writing, making reference from the acceptable information from Laronen’s notes, and after some time, concluded the neat list of everything that needed to be included in the letters.

                “It would be best for all the letters to be no less than two pages, but no more than three. Can you do that?” Ulfric asked, tapping his work with his thumb as Loriel looked it over one more time.

                “For a final draft before personalizing things? Child’s play.”

                “Good man,” and he gave up his seat for the bard.

                For this sheet of paper, Loriel brought out an inkwell and a quill. For best legibility. A polite draft to the letters, and Ulfric settled himself leaning against the table to watch as _his_ Altmer went to work.

                He wrote like he was giving his best performance.

                Every word was legible, not Laronen’s cramped curling handwriting with words smeared together, and every single letter was crisp and elegant, with neat slopes and fine lines. He accented every i and j with three dots rather than one, making each one resemble arrows, and every letter with a dash had two, his own beautiful flourish.

                It was just as much a work of art as watching Loriel create it.

                “You know I’m not going to write like that on my letters,” Laronen scoffed when he looked.

                “And you don’t have to. Now shut up.”

                The commentary had made him lose his focus, and it irritated Loriel. It was like someone speaking during one of his performances, he didn’t like to be interrupted. He didn’t like distractions.

                And Laronen fell silent, those amber eyes meeting Ulfric’s sea blue and he only gave a small quirk of his shoulders but nothing more than that. He was quiet for Loriel’s concentration.

                And in that room the only sound that was made was the crackling of the hearth and the scratching of Loriel’s quill.

                Loriel had just finished punctuating a paragraph when there was a sharp knock on the door and the bard hissed in annoyance, Laronen getting the door to find Galmar standing there, his expression pinched.

                “Is Ulfric- There he is,” and he immediately pushed past the healer to approach the Jarl, a letter in hand. “This just came in from the Rift,” and immediately offered it to his Jarl.

                The comment about the Rift was excuse enough for Ulfric to step away from Loriel’s side, going outside of the room with Galmar following after as he read the report.

                The note told of two things, the first being that the Rift had been claimed from the Imperials, meaning that Jarl Law-Giver could return to her home that very evening perhaps, but the second was that there had been a considerable amount of casualties and there were more wounded than what his healers could manage on their own.

                They needed help.

                Ulfric ground his teeth before he turned back to Laronen’s room. Loriel hadn’t resumed writing, and Laronen was already looking at the door when the Jarl returned.

                “Did something happen?” Laronen immediately asked as soon as he observed the Nord’s expression.

                The Rift needed help.

                His soldiers needed help.

                And Ulfric would be a fool to not send the best when he had it available to him.

                “Laronen, I need you to go to the Rift, I need a capable healer there until the wounded have been properly managed. Can I trust you to do that?” he asked the Altmer.

                “Yes sir,” Laronen answered without hesitation and Loriel bristled.

                “I’m going with you,” Loriel shot in.

                “No you’re not.”

                “He’s going with you,” Ulfric settled flatly, knowing that Loriel needed the peace of mind that his brother was going to be safe. If he wanted to go, Ulfric would let him, and they wouldn’t be going alone. “I will have you accompanied by a team of guards and soldiers to offer reinforcements to those who are there. Be ready to leave within two hours,” he finalized before he turned to leave, he had orders to give to his soldiers.

                Galmar had said that the message from the Rift had been sent along by a guard on horseback, meaning that it had been only a handful of hours, and Ulfric knew that he had to act fast for the benefits of his soldiers in the Rift. The quicker he responded, the more lives could be saved.

                But knowing that he was allowing Loriel to step away from his side, out from under the shadow he cast where he could protect him made the Jarl feel hollow with worry. He wouldn’t admit to anyone that he didn’t trust _anyone_ with Loriel’s safety outside of himself, and he would only feel at ease in this situation if he was going with, but he couldn’t. Ulfric needed to be in Eastmarch where he could give orders. He wanted to stay at Loriel’s side, where he could see him, where he could reach out to him and if need be, to pull him away from danger, but what his _people_ needed was for him to stay where he was.

                He couldn’t do it in this situation.

                Loriel felt he needed to be with his brother and Laronen was needed in the Rift.

                So that was where he would be.

                It was nearing the two hour mark when he saw the brothers again, heading out towards the stables where the rest of the soldiers were gathering, Laronen wearing mage robes enchanted for restoration and Loriel wearing borrowed armor, full _Stormcloak_ armor, Ulfric realized, his heart thumping a little harder in his chest in pleasure. The appeal of that elf wearing that armor, more than just ill-fitted chainmail, was incredibly positive to the Jarl.

                “Loriel,” he called out.

                Both of them paused and after a moment, Laronen went ahead and Ulfric caught up to Loriel.

                “What is it?” his bard asked, and the Jarl swallowed, reaching out with clumsy fingers for the Altmer’s hand before he slid the twist of metal off of his wrist and onto the other’s, his eyes staying on that piece of bronze, only lifting when he heard the quiet breath.

                As sea met amber, he felt Loriel’s fingers brush against his own, touching the bracelet.

                “I gave it to you,” Loriel told him softly.

                “And now I’m giving it to you. Promise me you won’t be long,” Ulfric urged, trying to not appear nervous.

                The words made the elf’s cheeks mildly flush, lips parting in surprise for a moment before they curved with the soft edges of a smile.

                “I promise,” he assured.

                Ulfric remembered this very same situation in reverse just a week ago and he couldn’t help but feel reassured.

                “I’ll be waiting for you.”

                That was his own promise.

                He walked out with Loriel, shoulder to shoulder, their arms occasionally brushing but no more than that, and with the final orders given out to his men, Loriel promised that when they had a moment in the Rift, he and his brother would work on the final letters so that they would be ready to send out when they returned. And then, his elf was gone, arms locked around his brother’s waist on the back of a horse, the bow of Auri-El slung over his shoulders and a quiver full of arrows, and looking back to the Jarl as the entourage lead by Galmar kicked up dust with the last lingering minutes of daylight being overtaken by the light of the moons.

                Loriel had left with a promise, and as he watched the group disappear ahead of the carriage of the Jarl of Riften, Laia Law-Giver, he couldn’t help remembering the last time Loriel looked back to him as he left so many months ago and the memory left him feeling hollow. The difference between this and that was that this was business while that had been absentminded adventuring.

                The last time he watched Loriel go, he had said he would be back in two weeks.

                Loriel had been two weeks late on that promise and when Ulfric saw him again, the Jarl was so jumpy from the knowledge of who Loriel’s mother was that he had practically banned the Mer from returning to Windhelm.

                He wasn’t going to make the same mistake again.

                This time, Loriel was in the company of his brother, Galmar, Ralof, twenty-eight other soldiers, and six guards.

                Of all those men, Ulfric had to admit he trusted Ralof the most with Loriel’s safety and he trusted Laronen the most with his brother’s wellbeing.

                And as Ulfric shed his clothes and returned to the comfort of his bed, he couldn’t help but think of how the pillow Loriel had rested his head upon still smelled like him, and the fact that Loriel wasn’t there, wasn’t in Windhelm, wasn’t there with him like he had been the night before, made him feel cold.

                Ulfric wanted Loriel back where he belonged.

                Right at his side.

                And as his eyes drifted closed, he traced his thumb over his skin where the phantom sensation of the bracelet still lingered, just one more time before falling into an uneasy sleep.

                In the morning, the Jarl of Windhelm stepped back into his normal routine, one that had been disturbed the last two days. He woke and meditated, ate and then visited the Temple of Talos to pray, settled about his duties as a Jarl to his people in the city of Windhelm, in the hold of Eastmarch, and in all the territory that had been claimed under the Stormcloak banner.

                Now there were only three holds left under the control of the Imperials: Solitude, Falkreath, and Morthal.

                Tullius was probably squirming in his seat.

                From here, all Ulfric needed to do was defend and keep the holds that he had.

                The war was back on because of giving the order to reclaim the Rift, and hopefully it would not take too long for them to be in a position to cease the civil war entirely and redirect the majority of Tamriel’s military efforts towards the Aldmeri Dominion, to reclaim independence from the tyranny that, from what Ulfric understood of Laronen’s notes, had been a long time in the making.

                Every camp, hold, and capital city under his command was sent their orders.

                Ulfric had to keep himself distracted almost constantly to not allow his thoughts to stew upon Loriel’s absence. He missed the Altmer terribly, and after three days of the brothers being gone from his side, he felt listless.

                Galmar’s update didn’t put him at any ease either.

                The sheer amount of wounded was staggering, Laronen’s work heavy, and the spill of blood had attracted the attention of vampires looking for easy prey. Loriel was getting almost daily practice with that bow of his, and Galmar was getting to witness firsthand what Auri-El’s bow and sunhollowed arrows could do to the undead.

                The Dawnguard made an appearance as well to help deal with the problem while Laronen saved lives.

                There were nicknames for Ulfric’s two Altmers.

                Laronen the Living and Loriel Firestarter.

                Laronen Golden-hand and Loriel Burning-hand.

                Ulfric personally thought the nicknames were for a master healer like Loriel was and the very Mer who was a repeat arsonist against the Thalmor.

                The thought though made him think of Arson. He had come when the dragons came, a war with the Thalmor on his mind, and he left before he could see the war through, but he had laid down the very pieces to accomplish the task. Balgruuf, Laronen, even Loriel seemed to be part of Arson’s master plan.

                Crafty bastard.

                He couldn’t help thinking about the dark blond lock he had seen only once in the shoddy cabin to the south of Windhelm, and the glowing fire in his eyes that he had viewed in High Hrothgar. Perhaps Arson had been a Breton with recent Altmer ancestry, since Bretons were a mix of both elf and man. It wouldn’t have surprised Ulfric if perhaps Arson might have been a Reachman either. It was possible. Arson was as tall as an Orc, built like a Breton, spoke like a Nord, efficient as a Forsworn, and fierce as a dragon.

                There were so many possibilities of what made Arson what he was.

                But all that mattered was _who_ Arson had been.

                A wise man.

                A dreamer of peace.

                He deserved the rest he got in Sovngard for all he had done.

                Ulfric and the rest of Tamriel would handle the rest.

                It was a small handful of days later when there was news among the guards of a company wearing Stormcloak colors approaching the city and Ulfric tried not to look too excited as he headed to the gate, to the bridge, his strides full of purpose so he could greet his returning men.

                Everyone who was meant to return home was there, the soldiers who weren’t staying in the Rift, Galmar, Laronen, and there was Loriel as well.

                He couldn’t help smiling.

                Loriel was home.

                But there was a figure on horseback next to Laronen and Loriel’s horse, smaller, feminine, hooded and wearing strange armor that he thought was familiar from a distance and recognized as they drew closer.

                Serana had joined the company.

                And he wondered what brought on this visit.

                As the company reached the stables and dismounted, Loriel’s legs rubbery as soon as his feet hit the ground, Loriel grinned at him, wiggling his tired legs a bit before approaching Ulfric with excitement on his face.

                “Can I borrow my brother for another adventure?”

                Wanderlust had sank its claws back into Loriel’s heart and the question made Ulfric feel like a hole had just opened up in his stomach, allowing his heart to drop through.

                He shouldn’t have let Loriel leave in the first place.


	28. Chapter Twenty-Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just FYI, this is also posted on my Fanfiction account too. Same name, same story. Enjoy. And don't forget to comment please.

                The fact that Loriel promised that he would only be gone for two weeks was unsettling to Ulfric, primarily because the last time he said he would be gone for only two weeks, the Jarl ended up not seeing the bard for a month.

                On the positive side, he had the assurance of two other people who were less inclined to get distracted by adventuring to make sure that they would be back by the deadline if not earlier.

                Two weeks.

                And two weeks couldn’t pass by fast enough in his view.

                Really the only thing that claimed enough of Ulfric’s attention away from thinking about Loriel and his absence was his duties to his people, especially when he went on patrol.

                It took his thoughts away from the box Loriel had given to the captain of the Northern Maiden and paid the man handsomely for it to be delivered to Second Councilor Adril Arano in Raven Rock. That box contained one handsome bottle of Vintage Brandy from Ulfric’s small stash of the stuff, cushioned neatly with a pillow of crushed velvet, and beneath the fabric, every letter Loriel and Laronen had written were hidden away, ready to be sent out to their contacts by the hands of the Dunmer who still seemed to feel that he personally owed Loriel a favor for stopping the assassination attempt on the First Councilor, and Loriel was using that favor to his advantage.

                It took his thoughts away from Baby, who missed his master terribly and had taken to sleeping in Ulfric’s room again in Loriel’s absence.

                It took his thoughts away from Loriel’s lack of presence in the training yard, his far corner vacant and the target waiting to be gifted with the attention of a talented archer again.

                It took his thoughts away from the memory of watching Loriel easily adjust the fastenings of the Dawnguard armor like it had not been sixteen years since the last time he wore such armor, even helping his brother with his own armor. Serana had brought the full sets of armor as a disguise so that they wouldn’t be stopped if they came across any Imperials, knowing fully well that both Loriel and Laronen were wanted Altmers.

                It took his thoughts away from remembering his comment that he thought Loriel looked better in Stormcloak armor, that very comment that made both Laronen and Galmar wear identical shit-eating grins behind Loriel’s back as the bard smiled to the Jarl, almost sweetly, and he agreed with the thought, all before he neatly gathered up his hair so that it could be tucked away beneath the full helmet.

                It took his thoughts away from watching the bard, the healer, and the vampire as they left in search of a place that had once been long forgotten by time.

                But Ulfric’s duty to his people could not stop the maddening nights that came in Loriel’s absence.

                The first few nights consisted of dreams, not necessarily nightmares, about searching for Loriel. He could hear his voice, _feel_ his presence around the palace but the _moment_ he would enter the room where he heard the bard not heartbeats before, his Altmer would be nowhere to be found.

                Those dreams changed after Ulfric had returned from patrol after Loriel had been gone for five days to have a message from the captain stationed at the Stormcloak camp in Falkreath, informing him of word that another cart had been sent up from Cyrodiil laden down with weapons for the Imperial army. The message was a courtesy from the captain, acknowledging that all camps and forts still had their orders. Do not attack.

                What the captain did do in Ulfric’s favor though was not an attack though.

                What they did to was cause a delay, a distraction, and a sabotage.

                Ulfric was proud of the captain for his smart thinking, falling a tree across the path that was in such a rocky area that the Imperial escort had to stop to cut apart the tree enough to get it out of the way and while the soldiers’ attentions were on that, one of their more crafty Stormcloaks snuck in and did just enough subtle damage to a wheel and the axel that would make the wheel come off after so many miles.

                Not only would the wheel come off, but the sound that the heavy cart would make when it did so would scare the horses and make them bolt.

                It would be something that the Imperials would believe to be mere bad luck while the Stormcloaks would call it a job well done while they waited on standby for the real fight to come.

                After that letter, the dreams Ulfric did have shifted.

                At first, it was just a recreation of the scene when Loriel gave him that twisted band of bronze and when Ulfric gave it back to him, paired with a promise that Loriel would come back.

                A dream at the beginning of the second week was simply of waking to sunlight filtering into his room with Loriel curled against his body, secure and almost solid in his arms.

                Another featured Ulfric showing Loriel High Hrothgar, and telling him all the stories of his days spend there, tales of the trouble he got into as a mischievous young man before he had decided that Tamriel needed his own personal strength against the Aldmeri Dominion.

                There was a dream about Loriel’s scars, the ones he had seen, the ones he hadn’t seen. He knew all the ones that Loriel wore above the waist, and the ones that ran down his right side, but he didn’t know about all the ones that he had on the left. What other marks did Loriel have on his skin? Ulfric wanted to touch every single one of them, with his hands and with his mouth.

                And then there was the dream that burrowed into Ulfric’s thoughts for _days_ after.

                Loriel had said he had learned the ins and outs of sucking dick _well_ back at the Temple of Dibella in High Rock, and in that dream, oh he showed him _well_. Ulfric doubted that his own fantasies paired with memories of being a recipient of such an act in the past would come even close to what Loriel might have been able to do in reality, but Ulfric woke up stiff as steel and his own fist was hardly a good substitute for the mental image of Loriel’s mouth around him.

                Those dreams were what got him through the last few days.

                And then, while Ulfric was busy multitasking in the war room, eating his lunch and writing a reply back to the Stormcloak camp in Haafingar, he heard familiar voices carrying through the quiet of the main hall to reach his ears.

                He couldn’t stop the smile that came as he set aside his quill and capped his ink well to go greet the brothers.

                They were a day early.

                And as Ulfric rounded the corner, he watched one of the two Altmer’s glance up across the hall to see him, the other standing with a canvas wrapped object tucked under his arm as he eagerly spoke with the Nord woman, and there was a pause in conversation when the one looking made the other turn and look.

                The most amazing view in the world was Loriel’s brilliant smile that came without hesitation as soon as their eyes met.

                It seemed that he hadn’t been the only one looking forward to the return, if the way Loriel broke away from his companions to approach him was anything to go by.

                Ulfric was only vaguely aware of Galmar and Ysrarald coming up from the kitchen, more focused on Loriel, and he smiled.

                “Welcome home,” Ulfric greeted.

                “It’s good to be home,” Loriel said almost breathlessly. “I brought something back for you.”

                And the Altmer offered the canvas wrapped thing to him.

                Ulfric could tell as soon as it was in his hands that this object was a shield, as heavy as one made of Ebony or of Orc design, but the shape beneath the canvas was nothing like either of those two. Curiously, he brought it in to the war room and Loriel watched as he cut the twine that held the covering closed.

                The shield Loriel had gifted him with was made of the same unique stuff that Loriel’s bow was crafted from, the design of curves and angles much the same, even the grip on the back was wrapped the same. But while Loriel’s bow maintained a flawless appearance, ageless and forever young, the shield showed signs of use, faint scratches and grooves along the surface from protecting its past wielders from assaults.

                And there was an energy to it too, something like nothing he had ever felt before.

                “I thought something like this would better serve its purpose in the hands of a king,” Loriel said at his side.

                _In the hands of a king._

                “This is…”

                “Auri-El’s shield.”

                Another solid creation of the deity, this one designed to protect while its brother was designed to do damage.

                Loriel gave him a look of playful amusement, one that was thoughtful as well as he traced a finger over the edge as he continued, “I was told that the shield will absorb the energy of attacks it blocks and releases the energy when used to bash. I haven’t seen it in action though, so you’ll have to be the one to tell me if it’s true or not after your next adventure.”

                “Or you could see it for yourself if you accompany me on the next patrol I join,” Ulfric suggested.

                Loriel’s brows rose in surprise, his cheeks dusting with color, before a soft, shy smile curved his lips.

                He looked sweet like that.

                Both of them jumped when they heard a loud clatter from the main hall and when they both looked out to see what was the cause, laughter bubbled up from Loriel’s lungs and Ulfric couldn’t stop his own grin.

                It looked like Laronen had been missed as well, because as soon as Nilsine saw him, the Nord woman rushed to him and the impact of the heartier woman knocked the Altmer to the floor despite his armor. Laronen was frozen on the ground with her on top of him, his golden face such a handsome shade of scarlet that it made Ulfric wonder what was redder, a garnet or Laronen’s face.

                Nilsine smiled and her hair curtained their faces as she leaned down to kiss him.

                A disgruntled Galmar handed a small coin purse to Ysrarald, the military captain smug as he counted out his winnings.

                Ulfric couldn’t help but wonder how many love-life bets had Ysrarald won thus far.

                It was at least three now.

                Maybe four if there had been a bet on Ulfric’s response to Loriel’s return.

                The bard in question gazed to Ulfric and smiled broadly. “About damn time~!” he cheered.

                Ulfric had to agree.

                Good for Laronen.

                Good for Nilsine too.

                “I wonder when the wedding will be,” Ulfric noted to Loriel with a small smile.

                “I hope Lermion will be invited. You’ll get to meet the last one of us,” Loriel stated.

                The blacksmith, Ulfric idly remembered.

                “Have you eaten yet?” he asked, changing the topic.

                “Not yet. Care to finish your lunch with me?” Loriel asked, the half-finished plate far from being ignored by the Altmer’s keen eyes.

                “You can tell me about your adventure. Perhaps Serana would like to join us, I’m sure your brother could be spared to spend some time with his lady-friend.”

                The smile that came next would have normally been mischievous in the light of Laronen and Nilsine’s pending relationship had transformed into something soft. Fond. He was happy for his brother.

                “Of course.”

                Loriel still stank of travel, of dust and sweat and horses and the faint tinge of blood, the Dawnguard armor looking broken in since the last time he saw the Altmer, in bad need of a bath that Loriel was willing to delay for the chance of a meal and talk and Ulfric watched as Loriel stepped away from Ulfric to go down to the kitchens with Serana to see if there was any more food left from the castle’s high sun meal.

                By then, Laronen had picked himself off of the floor and Nilsine and he had gone back to his own room for some privacy, the healer’s ears still a handsome shade of scarlet.

                That was when Galmar decided to approach.

                And the moment Ulfric noticed the smile he was wearing, he was well prepared for the tease.

                “So did you give him a welcome back kiss?” Galmar inquired, to which Ulfric calmly pointed out that he believed the housecarl owed the military commander money.

                The satisfaction that he felt paired nicely with his friend’s groan of disappointment.

                Ysrarald personally looked victorious as the man sulked over to him and shoved another bag of Septims into his hand as he passed.

                It confirmed at least four bets now, especially with the broad smile the commander gave the Jarl, followed with a salute before he turned to leave, no doubt to return to the training yard for the evening.

                Every thought was pushed aside and forgotten as soon as Loriel and Serana returned with plates of food—it looked like vampires could eat when they wanted to—and the three of them settled themselves in various chairs in the war room so they could eat and tell Ulfric about their adventure through Forgotten Vale, with Baby interrupting midway through to steal a good portion of Loriel’s attention, eagerly meowing at his master and refusing to be anywhere but on Loriel’s person while he was seated. Of the thirteen days the company was gone, eight of those days were invested in just _traveling_ to and from the valley hidden deep in the mountains between Skyrim and High Rock, much to Loriel’s disappointment, but the other five days had been spent exploring the valley and allowing the Altmer brothers to meet the Knight-Paladin guardian of the Chantry of Auri-El, a genuine _Snow Elf_ named Gelebor. Lorie couldn’t stop his excitement from showing as he gushed over the fact that the Falmer—no, Snow Elf as the two repeatedly corrected Ulfric—was easily beyond 4000 years of age.

                He had been around since the first Era.

                And apparently hadn’t left the Vale in that long as well.

                The dutiful guardian of the Chantry of Loriel’s beloved god.

                It must have been a dream come true for Loriel to be able to visit the sanctum.

                Loriel spoke in great detail about the valley, about the unusual variation of flora and fauna that lived there, the Wayshrines and the Paragon stones, about the frozen lake and the Word Wall guarded by twin dragons that the company sharply avoided due to a pair of golden brothers being terrified and Serana was certainly unwilling to handle the beasts by herself after the trouble they had given her and Bat the Axe, an Orc who Loriel had been close with while he had been part of the Dawnguard and admittedly Loriel’s contact for the alliance.

                It appeared that Alduin had not forgotten the two dragons upon his return.

                There had been many discoveries that had been made in the valley, including four unknown books written in the ancient text of the Snow Elves that the Knight-Paladin had translated for Loriel, the shield Loriel had gifted him with, new Sunhollowed Arrows for Loriel’s bow, and a set of ancient Snow Elf armor that Laronen intended to give to Lermion to satisfy his love of collecting examples of rare armor, a fact that had evidently not changed in the time Loriel had spent as a fugitive.

                It was drawing into evening when Loriel’s odd-eyed friend finally concluded she should be on her way.

                “Heading back to the Fort already?” Loriel asked, not hiding his disappointment as he massaged Baby’s ears, the orange beast purring especially loud.

                Serana smiled as she got to her feet, “Yeah, you know how the Dawnguard is without me.”

                “Do me a favor and kick Israan in the ass for me.”

                “Or you could come down there and do it yourself,” Serana said with a grin. “I’ll be sure to let him know how your training with the Bow is going,” her words sounding like a well anticipated tease directed at Israan and it only made Loriel smirk, full of mischief.

                “You do that. And come back soon, okay? I miss seeing your beautiful face.”

                Much to Baby’s disappointment, Loriel stood so he could hug Serana tight, lifting her feet up off the ground for a moment and she laughed, hugging him back with just as much strength and once she was back on solid earth, she cupped her hands over his ears and tilted his head down, pressing an affectionate kiss to his forehead. “Don’t get into too much trouble while I’m gone, okay?” she told him before the vampiric Nord turned those strange eyes upon Ulfric, “Don’t let him get into too much trouble,” she told the Jarl to clarify, Baby squawking for Loriel’s attention loudly from the table until he was picked up again.

                “That usually is my goal,” Ulfric admitted, the humor in his voice as he glanced at Loriel making the Altmer snort.

                Serana laughed. “So far so good then,” she stated.

                The Nord noblewoman and the Jarl shook hands before she left, leaving Loriel and Ulfric in peace.

                The Jarl reached out and stroked the cat in Loriel’s arms, golden eyes among amber fur in golden arms with amber eyes, and Ulfric couldn’t help but think how fitting master and pet were for each other, until he realized that those amber ones were focused on him, calm and thoughtful.

                There were emotions behind those eyes, a curiosity that Ulfric couldn’t pick up entirely.

                “What is it?” Ulfric asked.

                Loriel took in a soft breath and dropped his eyes down to Baby, rubbing one ear thoughtfully between long slim fingers.

                “I have an errand I need to finish, a favor for a friend. I had almost completely forgotten about it until this adventure,” he said softly.

                Of course he did.

                Of course he was going to leave again.

                To some, questing was like a drug, and once someone got a taste of it after a long breather, the addiction would fall back into place. Loriel was just one of those people who couldn’t stay still once they got a taste of freedom again, like a bird flown from its cage, it only was willing to touch down in the spot for a moment before it went off again.

                But before he could think any further on it, he heard Loriel ask, “Do you think you could take a break from being a Jarl for a few days to come with me?”

                The question made his head snap up to look at the Altmer, who was still gazing down at his cat.

                And he let out a breath.

                Loriel wanted to go on an adventure with _him_.

                “That can be arranged.”


	29. Chapter Twenty-Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just FYI, this is also posted on my Fanfiction account too. Same name, same story. Enjoy. And don't forget to comment please.

                After Loriel had taken a much need bath and was dressed comfortably again, the two of them stood at Ulfric’s desk, the elf’s sleek fingertips smoothing down the edges of an old dog-eared map, three shards of glowing blue crystal gleaming in the candlelight of the late hour of the evening.

                “Raldbthar is just southwest of Anga’s Mill and due east of Irkngthand,” Loriel stated, tapping the location on the map and drawing in a deep, nervous breath, “Bandits have probably come back to squatter but those shouldn’t be a problem. The real problem is going to be the Falmer and, if luck isn’t on our side, the Centurion in the Deep Market.”

                “You’ve been there before?” Ulfric asked.

                “Yeah. It’s the only way to Blackreach, sits right above it and back when the Dwemer were still around, it was the main mining operation of Aetherium. I know where the last shard is, I remember seeing it while trying to avoid the Centurion and get the mechanism open. I would have gotten it the first time around if Katria had been there with me that time. My talent at picking locks is decent but slow. Centurions don’t wait for slow.”

                “Katria?”

                “She’s the expert on Aetherium who helped me get the pieces that I have. I met her back when I was exploring Arkngthamz about four years ago while I was having a small breather from the College. She got betrayed by her own apprentice who stole her research and made her a footnote in the publication,” he said, irritation soaking his voice, “If I ever see Taron Dreth, I’ll be giving him a piece of my mind. Or my foot up his ass.”

                An amusing mental image.

                “So how soon do you want to do this?” Ulfric asked.

                “How soon can you part from your duties?” Loriel replied.

                _That soon, huh?_ The Jarl thought with a smile. “I think I can make myself available the day after tomorrow. How long do you think it will be?”

                “A couple days at the most. Maybe three.”

                He nodded. “That sounds like something Galmar can manage without me. Tomorrow will be a busy day for me.”

                “I should let you get some rest then.”

                “I suppose you should.”

                He glanced to Loriel’s hand when he felt it rest on his forearm, and then he let his eyes trail up that arm to Loriel’s face.

                The Altmer smiled, very softly, making the Bear of Markarth feel his heart stutter against his ribcage.

                “I’m glad you’re coming with me.”

                “It’s been a while since I’ve gone adventuring for the sake of adventuring, and in good company no less.”

                And Loriel gave a small laugh, looking down as he shook his head and lightly lifted his hand from Ulfric’s sleeve to shift something down the length of his upper arm through the material of his shirt, over his elbow, and down his wrist before sliding the twisted band of bronze off.

                He lifted Ulfric’s hand and pressed the object into his palm, quietly curling the Nord’s thick digits closed over it, those golden hands feeling warm against his, lingering like thoughts and emotions that went unsaid from one to the other.

                The Jarl watched the Altmer’s adam’s apple bob in his throat before he inhaled deeply.

                “Good night, Ulfric.”

                He wanted to say more than just good night.

                He wanted to say _stay with me_.

                But he didn’t.

                “Good night, Loriel.”

                And as the object of his affections left, the Jarl slipped the twisted metal band back onto his wrist.

                Tomorrow would be a busy day.

                But the day after would be the first day of freedom, just the two of them.

                Ulfric would have plenty of time to talk with Loriel without interruption.

                Well, _some_ interruptions, he supposed, considering they would be investigating Dwemer ruins that were no doubt occupied by bandits, Falmer, and Dwemer creations alike.

                Knowing that he would basically have Loriel all to himself those few days helped Ulfric to fall asleep fast, dream very _good_ dreams, and keep him well motivated the following day so he wouldn’t spend the journey worrying about his city, his hold, and the territories he had the loyalties of. He had left some stuff for Galmar to tend do in his absence, mostly some well deserving antagonistic payback for all Galmar’s teasings in the recent months, but when the day was done and he finally approached Loriel after dinner that day, he found that he hadn’t been the only one keeping busy.

                The Altmer had taken it upon himself to prepare their rations, buy potions, and even have spare alchemy ingredients in case of emergencies for the trip. It was obvious that Loriel had done this before.

                “I’m excited for tomorrow,” Loriel admitted, smiling as he watched Baby circle Ulfric’s shoulders.

                “I would be disappointed if you weren’t,” Ulfric replied with a playful smirk before he temporarily wore an orange mustache of cat tail, making the Altmer laugh. With cat fur up his nose, Ulfric couldn’t withhold the sneeze that came, loud and booming and Baby went running.

                That sneeze only made Loriel laugh that much harder, wheezing with tears jumping to his eyes. “You sneeze like a bear~”

                Giving a hard breath from his lips to try to blow away the lingering hair still clinging to his face, he rolled his eyes. “We should probably turn in for the night. Tomorrow is going to be an early day for us.”

                “If you say so, Jarl,” Loriel replied before reaching out and playfully tugging at the course hairs at the end of Ulfric’s chin, smirking, “See you bright and early,” and he turned away before the astonished expression on the Jarl’s face could settle, leaving without so much as a backglance.

                Some days Ulfric wondered if Loriel knew just how easily he drove him _wild_.

                Sleep did not come quick that night and dreams only teased him.

                He woke up early, only lingering in his bed long enough to take care of the stiff reminder of his carnal desire for a certain elf who slept down the hall, all before he washed at the basin before dressing, ate an early breakfast, and then retreated to done his armor for the quest.

                When he came back down, Loriel was waiting by the great door of the main hall, wearing the superior armor of the Dawnguard, with Auri-El’s bow and a quiver lodged full of arrows settled across his back, and a glass sword sheathed at his hip. The way he carried his travel bag at the small of his back, straps fastened to the loops for his belt, made him think of another.

                A mysterious magpie of a man armed with a sword of dragonbone and an ancient artifact hanging at the base of his spine.

                A man with eyes like hearthfire who dreamed of both peace and war.

                Ulfric breathed.

                Loriel had ways of bringing back memories of Arson that Ulfric didn’t know what to do with.

                And he swallowed down those thoughts as he approached, the elf gazing to him with a warm smile and offered Ulfric a travel bag, “I’m not carrying everything,” he said in a teasing tone.

                And the two of them set out.

                Jarl and bard.

                A Man and a Mer.

                Friends.

                But despite the closeness, Loriel still felt out of reach.

                Perhaps this adventure would bring him a bit closer, close the distance if only a little bit.

                Ulfric lingered in Loriel’s footsteps, allowing the Altmer to lead through familiar territory and as they neared the Pale’s Stormcloak camp, that was when he veered off to the south, up the shallow mountain. They were bypassing Uttering Hill’s Cave, a place known to have bandit activity, before Loriel drew his bow and an arrow from his back, prepared but relaxed. They were entering enemy territory now as they approached Dwemer steps.

                Ulfric readied his axe and the unfamiliar shield.

                It was as they climbed those steps that Ulfric observed the way Loriel carefully lowered himself, crouching some and beneath the padded armor he could see the way the elf squared his shoulders. And then, as they neared the top, Loriel drew back the bowstring as he peered over the lip of the stairs to gaze out, check the area, silent and focused.

                Ulfric had seen that same focus when Loriel had been writing.

                This time though, his eyes gleamed with calmness.

                Like candlelight.

                He didn’t know how long had passed before Ulfric saw the elf’s expression tighten, no longer calm but concerned, and then taking a few cautious steps forward.

                Something wasn’t right.

                They proceeded with caution until they reached the base of the ruins’ staircase.

                And Ulfric could see blood dripping down from landing.

                Upon investigating, they realized that all the bandits that had been guarding the entrance had been slaughtered like pigs, each one with a knife wound, either drawn across the throat or sank deep into their chest.

                The bodies were still warm.

                Loriel’s frown deepened, and Ulfric knew the mutual thought.

                _I don’t like this_.

                Work like this was usually the aftermath of an assassin’s presence and Ulfric had had quite enough with assassins as of late, especially with the attack on Laronen from the downed ship.

                The deep scar on Loriel’s throat was another reminder.

                Wordlessly though, they pushed on and entered the ruin.

                Right away, the Jarl could see the gleam of various items in the familiar sheen of Dwemer metal, all scattered haphazardly across the floor, and further ahead there was an open room, more Dwarven items in a cart, a collapsed gate beyond that which filtered in the sound of roaring fire, and a dead bandit on a bedroll. Ulfric would have missed the whistling over the sound of the fire being spouted if Loriel hadn’t held up a hand for Ulfric’s attention and tapped his ear.

                _Listen_.

                And he did.

                It was hard to identify but as the source drew closer, Loriel and Ulfric going to opposite sides of the fallen gate, the Jarl recognized the song as Ragnar the Red.

                And after long moments of stillness, he saw the assassin walk right past the gate, missing both of them due to their head being bowed, reading a letter.

                It was a member of the Dark Brotherhood.

                Loriel didn’t wait for the assassin to make it far before he sank an arrow through the man’s shoulder and out through his chest. Ulfric thought the impact of the shot alone would have made him collapse but apparently Dark Brotherhood members were made of sturdier stuff as he whirled, weapon immediately in hand, and Ulfric drew in a breath.

                “ _FUS RO DAH!_ ”

                The Shout sent the murderer flying, slamming into a wall so hard that he heard the sickening crunch that ruined the man’s shoulder more than it was already, all before he fell to the ground.

                Ulfric could hear the gurgled gasps for several long seconds before no more.

                He might have survived the Thu’um if the arrow hadn’t already done so much damage.

                Loriel was staring at Ulfric when he finally looked.

                “What?”

                And Loriel swallowed.

                “I… I’ve never heard a… a Shout that wasn’t…”

                “Arson’s?”

                And the elf nodded, looking back to their new dead friend and he approached, crouching beside the man and pulling off the shrouded cowl.

                The man was a Breton.

                He wasn’t familiar to Ulfric though, and he wasn’t familiar to Loriel either.

                Ulfric in turn picked up the paper the man had been reading.

                It was a list with two people’s names, the first crossed off, the name Alain Dufont only vaguely familiar, but the unmarked second was one he easily recognized.

                Nilsine Shatter-Shield.

                Just now, the two of them had inadvertently saved the woman’s life. Divines only knew how her death would have ripped her family to pieces.

                But there was no need to worry about that.

                He tucked the note away into the travel bag before Loriel stood and turned to face him.

                “Well, that’s one less thing to worry about,” the Altmer sighed. “Ready to move on?”

                The Jarl only nodded.

                As the two moved forward, circling the pillar where fire was spat, they saw the way the assassin had come and the three bandits that had been killed, one of which was dressed in fine clothes with a warhammer on the ground beside him.

                A very familiar warhammer in fact.

                The Shatter-Shield’s missing heirloom, Aegisbane.

                And this man, now that Ulfric remembered, had been the scoundrel who had robbed them blind while they had been grieving over Friga’s death. The Jarl personally thought he got what he deserved.

                Loriel looked at him curiously as he picked it up and secured it to his back. “Something to return to your future sister-in-law’s family,” was all Ulfric explained before motioning for Loriel to continue leading.

                As they moved forward through the open gate beyond, a bandit already dead, the elf explained the area that they had bypassed to the left of the flame-roasted skeever, a domestic area that was usually heavily patrolled, the area that they were in now that had been rich with loot the first time he had come through, and the area that they were to go through next was a place that if the Dwemer constructs had returned, they were about to have some fun.

                Loriel fixed him with a playful grin as he put away his bow in favor of his sword and pushed the door open.

                Already there were mechanical spiders and spheres roaming, and as the two rushed forward, Ulfric grinned as his blood sang in his ears. Dwarven constructs were harder to fight than Man or Mer, unable to feel pain and only stopping once they were too damaged to function, and a few more came out from the pipes.

                Once or twice, he caught a glimpse of Loriel as the other fought, the Dwemer-made light of the room gleaming off his blade. He moved with purpose as someone who had spent many years fighting, not getting too cocky or using showy attacks. He had fought with the same exact definition as he had the first time they had fought side-by-side all those months ago in Helgen’s Keep. It was only when a sphere got under his guard that Loriel ended up slamming his knee into it with a loud curse, sending the metal creature careening away and into one of its kin, the limbs tangling and locking the two together, which made them easy targets for Loriel’s fierce strikes.

                When all was still within the room, Ulfric looked back to Loriel to see him leaning against a wall, rubbing his offended kneecap and Ulfric couldn’t help but tease, “Taking a knee, elf?”

                The bard rolled his eyes and the Nord heard him grumble something about euphemisms and jabs under his breath before he stood up properly, gritting his teeth as he put weight on his foot, and proceeded to stalk into the next room that had scorch marks on the ground and the remains of masonry, and stabbed his blade into the mechanism of a Dwemer spider, the wicked claws stabbing at Loriel’s guarded arms before he wretched the blade up and cut through something that made it shut down.

                “So there’s a secret to turning them off,” Ulfric noted with surprise.

                “Ish. Gotta get to it first,” Loriel muttered and blew a lock of hair out of his face before glancing at the gashes in his armguards. His arms were bleeding a little bit but evidently not enough to be concerned.

                Ulfric had not failed to notice the way the Altmer was limping and he frowned gently. “Do you want to stop?”

                “No, we’re not far from the lift to the Deep Market. Once we reach the lift I can stand for a breather.”

                Ulfric was about to suggest a healing potion when he heard a small _click_ from under his own foot and Loriel instinctively dove as a pair of spinning blades emerged from the floor, one of them slamming into his armor with astonishing pain as he was sent reeling back from the force he was struck with.

                He immediately pressed his hand to the spot and felt open metal beneath his fingers and the heat of blood.

                The blades had cut _through_ his armor.

                “Don’t move!” Loriel yelped a few yards in front of him, rolling onto his back.

                And Ulfric froze.

                For several long moments, neither of them moved, the blades continuing to whirl before they slowed to a stop, folded up, and then sank back into their hiding spot.

                Loriel was the one to move first, hissing in pain as he got to his feet and skirted well out of the reach of the blades if they came up again before he made it to Ulfric’s side, eyes locked on the bleeding gash at his side. “You stepped on a floor trigger, set off the trap,” he explained as he helped Ulfric to his feet, “I keep forgetting I have years on you with dealing with Dwemer ruins.”

                “Wonderful,” the Jarl muttered sarcastically.

                The two of them fell back to the room with the fallen masonry before they sank to the floor, back against a wall, and side-by-side, exhausted already from what they had already experienced.

                “Get that gear off so I can see the damage,” Loriel said, face screwed up in pain as he slowly straightened out his leg.

                The Jarl’s armor came off tediously slow as he loosened the straps and undid the fastenings enough to slip off his shoulder guards and the cobalt sash all before he worked on getting his chest plate off.

                “Do you think it’s broken?” Ulfric asked, noticing how Loriel avoided touching his knee as he set the bulkiest part of his armor aside.

                “This? No. Bruised to Oblivion and back but not broken,” he sighed before those amber eyes turned to his own wound and the Jarl saw Loriel wince at the sight of the jagged tear through the chainmail and undershirt beneath. The bard didn’t hesitate though as he reached out with a slim hand to pull the edge of the two up to expose the injury, frowned, and then shifted to face the Nord better even though the movement was obviously jarring to his leg if the way his nose wrinkled was any evidence.

                The Bear of Markarth was painfully aware that Loriel could see one of the worst of his war scars but the Altmer remained focused, his hand lingering to keep the woven rings and fabric away from the gash, knuckles pressed just above Ulfric’s belly, and he only vaguely shifted his attention to dig through his bag with his free hand and then offer the Nord a potion.

                Ulfric shook his head. “You first. You’re no good in a fight if you’re limping.”

                “And you’re no good in a fight if you’re dead from bloodloss.”

                “This is a mere _graze_ compared to what the Great War put me through.”

                The response made Loriel give him a flat look, persistent in holding out the potion to him, and Ulfric held his ground, only bothering to quirk a brow at the other while crossing his arms over the width of his chest.

                He played this game often with Galmar, and admittedly, the Jarl was quite good at it, and one would have thought that as a Mer, Loriel would have also been good at waiting games. But he wasn’t.

                The longer Ulfric waited, the more he watched Loriel’s expression quietly shift from flat and blank to annoyed and impatient, and after what felt like a solid five minutes of staring at each other, likely less than that in reality, Loriel huffed in defeat and pulled the cork, taking only a shallow swallow of the contents before holding the bottle out to Ulfric. The elf didn’t need much while the Jarl had a more obvious wound.

                That time Ulfric took it and tipped his head back, allowing the bitter taste to wash over his tongue. He held the bottle back out to Loriel and that time when he took it, he decided to pour some of the potion into his palm and then pressed his hand flat against the wound, startling Ulfric and he drew in a sharp breath.

                “Sorry. Does that hurt?” Loriel asked, an apology written in amber as they rose to meet a sea-colored view, worry touching his voice.

                Ulfric wondered if the elf thought he had hurt him.

                “No, just surprised me is all,” the man murmured.

                The bard seemed to accept the answer as truth before his gaze dropped back to the exposed skin, wandering away from the red of the fresh wound covered with that hand and those eyes traced the shape of a much older wound a few inches above.

                They softened slightly.

                “Where did you get this one from?” Loriel asked, his thumb just barely tapping against the scar.

                The contact almost burned and the Jarl swallowed as the muscles tensed beneath Loriel’s palm.

                “I was a part of a company of men that had been assigned to ambush one of the Dominion’s military camps near the boarder of Cyrodiil and Valenwood, sweep in like a storm and knock everything out. One of the Bosmer there used that bewitchment gift that they have and it made a nearby troll attack the company. It killed three of our men and wounded me and one other before Galmar put his axe through its skull,” he explained and Loriel looked up curiously. “He pulled rank on me back then, before he knew I was a jarlson.”

                That made Loriel laugh a little.

                “Really? What was he like back then?”

                “He had more piss and vinegar in him than half of Windhelm and was as loose with his words as he liked his women. Real lady-killer back then.”

                “I’m struggling to imagine Galmar attracting the attention of a handsy old hag let alone an actual _woman_.”

                “It’s been thirty-one years, he’s admittedly not as much of a looker as he used to be.”

                Loriel’s face skewed in confusion and also disgust and disbelief, an expression that made the Jarl chuckle. “I’m really struggling now.”

                Thirty-one years hadn’t nearly been as kind to Galmar as it had been to Ulfric, this much he knew, but the Nord couldn’t help but think that his housecarl had maintained some of his rugged appeal. He certainly wasn’t _bad_ looking but it was obvious that the Altmer who currently held his company didn’t see the same thing that Ulfric had some thirty years ago.

                “You’ll just have to take my word for it then.”

                “I suppose I will,” Loriel agreed, shaking his head with a brow raised and an awkward smile before he looked back down and drew his palm away from the wound to see how the potion was helping it recover.

                It was starting to close, gradually, but it wasn’t having fast results. The area also felt pleasantly numb. Loriel poured more of the potion onto his palm and put it back against the wound before he picked up the potion and offered it to Ulfric again, wanting him to have another drink of it if not finish the bottle. He gave a quirk of his brows at the Jarl until the man took it and finished the rest of it off.

                Setting aside the empty bottle, Ulfric watched Loriel’s eyes flick over his face, quiet and thoughtful before they settled on a spot and Lorield reached out with his free hand to touch a mark just below his ear, a burn scar that normally went overlooked.

                “What about this one?”

                The Nord felt his cheeks warm from the light pressure as well as the softness of Loriel’s voice.

                Perhaps it was where they were, what they were looking for, the way that they were sitting, the way that they were touching, the way that they were speaking, but it was something about this entire situation that made Ulfric feel that this moment was almost intimate.

                What he wanted more than anything was to pull the elf closer and kiss him stupid.

                But Ulfric didn’t.

                He composed himself and wetted his lips, “An adventure from High Hrothgar. I think I’ve told you this story before, the one where I stole Master Wulfgar’s pipe to try smoking.”

                Loriel’s nose wrinkled, just the same way that it had the first time he told him the story, “The one where you accidentally coughed?”

                He remembered that one story Ulfric had mentioned among possibly dozens, the one where the Greybeard in training admitted that he had coughed straight down the stem of the pipe and it sent the cinders flying right before a gust of wind brought it all back into his face. The burns on his face had healed well but the spot where a hot cinder had stuck to his skin, that one lingered even thirty-four years later.

                Loriel remembered an even insignificant story and Ulfric felt his lips quirk in content. “Yeah, that’s the one.”

                He was almost mournful when those fingers moved away from his skin and Loriel checked on the wound again.

                “How’s the leg feeling?” the Jarl asked and watched Loriel glance down to his knee, shifting it slightly.

                “Better. Not throbbing anymore.”

                “Did you really drink any of that potion?”

                “Don’t you channel your inner Laronen at me, Ulfric, one of him is bad enough,” Loriel sneered, almost playfully.

                “It’s hard not to when you’re taking over his normal role,” he retorted with a chuckle.

                Loriel rolled his eyes but his expression was one of good humor.

                “I suppose we should get eat something. That wound’s going to take its sweet time and it’s probably time for lunch,” the elf suggested, moving so he could sit beside Ulfric.

                The Nord was starting to think the same.

                After cleaning their hands of Ulfric’s blood, the two of them broke into their rations, Loriel sawing into a loaf of bread with a jagged-edged dagger while Ulfric chewed on some jerky.

                The silence felt cozy but also awkward.

                He wanted to keep the conversation going.

                To learn more about Loriel.

                About who he was and all that made up the person he was today.

                As he finished the first strip of meat, he realized what he hadn’t yet learned.

                “You never finished telling me what happened when you came back from Solstheim.”

                Loriel glanced to him as he drizzled honey from a bottle onto the slice of bread, at first in confusion and then in realization. He had forgotten that he hadn’t finished telling his story yet, after all, it had been three weeks since the last time the two of them indulged in talk about the Altmer’s past, one that came to an abrupt end when curiosity over scars won over that lead to a real answer to a question he asked the day before.

                Now Ulfric wanted to know the rest of what Loriel had lived through. After all, all he knew that happened between Solstheim and Helgen was that the elf had joined the Dawnguard, became Isran’s lover, met Serana, left after two years of hunting vampires, and then joined the Bard’s College under the alias of Mithnar until Ulfric started his war.

                Thoughtfully, Loriel took a bite of the honey-soaked bread and with a heavy sigh, he chewed.

                “Well, you know part of it. Twenty years ago was when there started to be a noticeable influx of random vampire attacks in cities and towns. They were becoming bolder, taking more risks. When I was getting off the Northern Maiden, there was talk among the guards about everyone in a merchant’s caravan going missing, leaving behind a cart heavy with goods. I was curious, the kind of curious that most people take for stupidity, and it probably was just that. And I went looking.”

                Loriel had cut himself another slice off his loaf and soaked it, pausing long enough to indulge in the morsel before he continued.

                “I never encountered any vampires in Solstheim, and my encounters with them during my travels before were rather limited, but I knew that it was a good idea to know where local shrines were. A simple prayer to the Divines can cure vampirism just like any normal disease,” the elf pointed out, “but at the time being, aside from the temple of Talos in Windhelm, I knew of only the one to the south-west of the city and the shrine of Akatosh to the west of the Dragon Mound near Gragslane Cave. Now I know about the shrine of Dibella and the Shrine of Julianos near Fort Amol too.”

                “There’s another Shrine of Talos east of Cradlecrush Rock, too.”

                “Ah, so that’s where it is,” the elf murmured thoughtfully, gazing up towards the ceiling. “Well, the caravan had been attacked to the north of the Dragon Mound. I caught a lot more signs of vampire activity while I was going there, I had stumbled across a couple corpses that had been drained dry. The cart had been ransacked to a degree, bandits, but I suppose they might have been using the cart as bait during the night. I only stayed long enough to look curious. I kept my guard up until I found myself in Shor’s Stone, and then I asked around. I heard about the Dawnguard from the guards and made my way down to Riften. I got in touch with some of my old contacts down there to hear more news, and then I headed to Fort Dawnguard.”

                And then Loriel laughed.

                “I never thought I would see Celann again. He was just as surprised to see me too. Told me that a lot had happened since I left the Hall of the Vigilance and ran off. He and Isran had both left the Vigilance due to being unhappy with how things were going, that the Vigilance wasn’t doing enough to take care of the vampire problem, and after a while, they went their own ways. I really shouldn’t have been as surprised as I was to find out that it was Isran who restarted the Dawnguard, the way he hated vampires. I met Bat on my first day there,” and the elf chuckled. “That Orc was something else.”

                Ulfric rose his brows curiously. “Why was that?”

                Loriel smiled to himself, soft and fond. “He made me not feel so alone while I was there. Everyone was busy doing their own thing, training or running errands, but Bat? He claimed me as his partner right away, even though I hadn’t agreed to be part of the Dawnguard yet. He teased me mercilessly when I first arrived because I had stripes on my sleeves, kept calling me ‘bumblebee’. Didn’t take long before everyone called me that. But… when I decided to stay after a week of skirting around Isran, Bat was the one who seemed genuinely happy. It was like… It was like I was back with my brothers again. I hadn’t felt that way since I ran into Laronen back in Cyrodiil,” Loriel explained fondly.

                His expression’s mirth diminished though as he continued on with the tale, “I had been a part of the Dawnguard for only a few days before I started butting heads with Isran about how he ran things. And then, after about a month of us getting in each other’s faces, a member of the Vigilance of Stendaar showed up on our doorstep with some grave news.”

                The Altmer was frowning deeply now and he closed his eyes.

                “The Hall of the Vigilance had been burned to the ground. Everyone had been killed. Isran gave the order for Bat and I to go to an old Crypt that the Vigilance had discovered the vampires had been looking into. Something important was there, no one was sure what. So we went. And there was Serana, the very one the vampires were searching for. She was carrying an Elder Scroll with a prophecy on it. That’s what the vampires were mostly after,” and he shook his head with a _tsk!_ “Serana asked to be escorted back home, and Bat and I decided to split up. He would go deal with Isran, let him know what happened, and I would take Serana home. I really think it was a good thing that I was the one doing that task otherwise Bat might have just tried to attack an entire court of vampires on his own. Serana’s father offered to turn me into a vampire as _thanks_ for bringing the Elder Scroll, and Serana, back to him, and I’d like to think that I declined as politely as I could. I was _terrified_ when I got out of there. I tried to get back to the Fort as fast as I could but I kept getting side-tracked by vampire attacks on the road and people asking for help. I didn’t realize how long it took me to get back until I finally made it back to Dayspring Canyon.”

                Loriel bit his lip and drew in an audible breath.

                “The Fort was under attack by vampires when I got there. I arrived probably about ten minutes after the vampires did, and the Dawnguard managed to slaughter them. Isran was absolutely livid, wondering what had taken me so long, Bat had gotten back _weeks_ ago and was out looking for me. But once we stopped screaming at each other…” and he shook his head, shrugging.

                “He kissed you,” Ulfric murmured, remembering all those months ago when Loriel first told him.

                “I’ve told you this story before.”

                The Altmer smiled though and sighed. “We were such a mess that night, all keyed up on adrenaline and emotions. I guess we both needed to blow off some steam, I know it had been a damn long time for me and I could only imagine how often Isran got any with his attitude problem, and for a while after, things got a little better between us. Maybe the sex had helped, I don’t know, but he cut me a bit more slack than he had before and I gave him just as much ease. When Bat came back, Isran gave Bat and I another mission. To collect a Breton inventor who was obsessed with Dwemer designs that eventually went into the improvements for the Dawnguard Crossbows and bolts, and then a Nord Blacksmith. Gunmar. Surprisingly good with animals, especially trolls. He…” And Loriel smiled, shaking his head, “He made me think of your father. Headstrong but warm to strangers. He cared about people even if he hadn’t met them. A good man.”

                Ulfric drew in a breath. “Do I make you think of my father?”

                The elf gazed to him and smiled something soft. “Little bits and pieces of you remind me of him. Like how you patrol. The warmth in your voice when you address new recruits. Your eyes are his. But mostly, when I look at you, I see you.”

                The statement took his breath away and he found himself smiling.

                _When I look at you, I see you_.

                Loriel seemed fond and he looked down, a bit of color coming to his cheeks before he continued. “When I got them back, Isran checked to see if any of us had vampirism, something that we all cleared on, before Isran wanted to know why a vampire had shown up at the fort asking for me. Serana had come all the way from Haafingar to warn us about her father who had discovered a prophecy about how to control the sun, therefore giving vampires more free range during the day to attack people regardless of the hour. Hundreds if not thousands would suffer under the slaughter. Isran was a real dick to Serana, constantly calling her ‘it’. I was really close to getting in Isran’s face before Bat stepped in and refocused our attention on what to do next. We had to find a Moth Priest, someone who is trained to read Elder Scrolls. And we found him, after he had already been captured by vampires, one was trying to enthrall him before we managed to bring that to a stop. We brought him back to the fort and he read the Scroll. We had to find two other scrolls. Serana had an idea where one of them might be but we had to find her mother. And where would we find her but the very place Serana’s father would least expect: right there in the castle, hiding under his very nose. The fort got attacked before we even left, and when our company arrived to the castle docks, only five of us even managed to survive the initial slaughter there. We couldn’t go back though, had to keep pushing forward. We had to find the scroll.”

                Loriel had to draw in a leveled breath. “Bat had already began to notice that I was falling into an episode of heartsickness during our assignment to find more help. He was always good at seeing that sort of thing, noticing little changes in people. We barely made it to the castle’s old docks before I had a full blown panic attack. Serana didn’t even know what to think, heartsickness and Legionnaire’s disease wasn’t anything she had witnessed back before she got sealed away. We were grounded there almost half the night while I recovered from the episode, and when I finally calmed down enough, we pushed on. I pushed on. We made it through the castle all the way to Serana’s mother’s laboratory. We didn’t find her mother there though. But we found out where she was. Her mother had hidden herself away in the Soul Cairn, and Serana was the only person who could open it because she shared her mother’s blood. The five of us made it into the Soul Cairn, and…” he sighed. “That place was something else…”

                “It was as barren and dry as the desserts of Hammerfell and bleak and cloudy as Morrowind near the Red Mountain. It is a place with no sun, one moon, and lightning strikes every so often. There were buildings and ruins, fissures in the ground that filled soul gems just by crossing them, floating crystals that drained health, lightning attractors. And so many lost souls,” Loriel explained with regret in his voice. “We found Serana’s mother, and we had to defeat three guardians to gain access to where she was. We were also stupid enough to stumble upon the Reaper’s Lair on the way back… We lost another member of the Dawnguard to the Reaper before we got out of there and back to Serana’s mother. And then…”

                Loriel let out a broken laugh.

                His hands were shaking.

                “I got to meet my first dragon. Fight him. That dragon killed another one of my companions, leaving just Serana, Bat, and me… Bat though, he got knocked out. I was so scared he was dead. I couldn’t lose him. He was my only real friend in the Dawnguard, I mean I was close with Celann and I was intimate with Isran, but it wasn’t the same as the relationship that I had with Bat. But I managed to defeat that dragon. Practically by myself. And Bat was alive. Disorientated but alive. We collected the scroll and we found our way out of the Soul Cairn. We found our way back home. And Isran… He was glad we had found one of the scrolls, but he… had so much disregard for the lives that had been _lost_. Two of my _friends_ were stuck in the Soul Cairn and seven had been killed before we could even get into the castle. Out of all of us, only two Dawnguard members and a vampire survived? What sort of victory was that?”

                Ulfric could tell that he was starting to become distressed and he lightly touched Loriel’s wrist. The Jarl and warlord knew that in situations like that, death was to be expected, but to lose so many, the chance of success growing slimmer with every death, he knew that pain. People who were not warlords like Ulfric and Isran seemed to think that losses like that were in vain. That the task at hand hadn’t been worth the deaths.

                He said nothing, just let their eyes meet.

                The Jarl watched Loriel breathe in deeply and close his eyes.

                Let that breath back out.

                And he continued.

                “Bat saw how badly I was hurting, how angry, and numb, and sad I was. My heartsickness was starting to spiral out of control and Isran was so incredibly unaware and his behavior was only making it worse. And Bat, he told me to leave. That he didn’t want to see me that way. He told me to leave the Dawnguard and do something that I loved, to do something that breathed life back into my soul. He wanted me to be happy. And the Dawnguard just wouldn’t do that. I had only really joined up because I enjoyed Bat’s company enough to stick around. He had claimed me as his partner. He was my brother in arms. And if Isran decided to get upset over my leaving, Bat would defend my reasoning ‘til the day he died. So I left. I left Bat, and Serana, and Celann, and Isran all behind and I went to Solitude under a different name, Mithnar, and I applied at the Bards College.”

                Loriel smiled a bit.

                “Back then, we didn’t have to go on some big quest like they have been doing for the last ten years, so when the Headmaster started that, I didn’t have to. I had already done my journeymanship in Rorikstead and was a comfortable student to both Old Lady Six-Fingers and Lady Ateia. Friendly with the Dean of History too, but other than that I lived a rather quiet life. I wasn’t very social. I focused on my music and that was about it. I took a breather for a while to do some exploring and I stumbled on the ruins of Arkngthamz where I met Katria. I promised her I’d help her with her research whenever I could. But before I could find time to go after the other shards, you decided to start your civil war,” and Loriel flashed him an amused expression. “And there’s my story.”

                And now Ulfric knew all that made Loriel who he was before the mess that the Jarl had made.

                And it made him feel at ease. Even closer to Loriel than he was before.

                They smiled to each other before Loriel’s eyes dropped to Ulfric’s side and curiously, they looked to see how the wound was recovering, now nothing more than the fresh pink of new scar tissue.

                “Ready to move on?” Ulfric inquired

                And Loriel only gave a grin.

                “Let’s go have some fun.”


	30. Chapter Twenty-Nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just FYI, this is also posted on my Fanfiction account too. Same name, same story. Enjoy. And don't forget to comment please.  
> -  
> So my stupid ass just now realized that you gain access to Blackreach for the Elder Knowledge and Discerning the Transmundane through Alftand and not through Raldbthar, soooooooooo…. Yeah, there’s that bumble. Anyway, I’m just going to continue saying Loriel went to Blackreach through Raldbthar since we’re already this far… Yipee. –scoots on to the rest of the story—

                Loriel hadn’t been exaggerating when he said that the lift wasn’t very far, and they descended into Raldbthar’s Deep Market in silence, discussing the layout of the first area of the Market, the multiple ramps there that would give Loriel a good place to shoot from and give Ulfric adequate cover while he tore into the Falmer with axe and shield.

                And that was exactly what they did.

                The pale creatures fell beneath arrow and axeblow alike, blind red eyes gleaming and glaring even in death. When the last one in the chamber fell, Ulfric let out a breath and crouched by one of the twisted ugly things. “So your Snow Elf was one of these?”

                “Closer to me and less like that. He was taller than me.”

                “Taller than an Altmer? That’s surprising?”

                Loriel made a face at Ulfric, curious and confused before he sighed, “Ah, the joys of shoes with heels, it makes up for my shortness.”

                That made Ulfric stop and blink.

                He hadn’t really noticed that before.

                “You jest. You’re not short.”

                “Ulfric. Orcs are just as tall as my brothers and I are and I’m only a little taller than you. For an Altmer, I’m _short_ ,” Loriel pointed out with lofted brows. “I blame my Breton ancestor for it.”

                The Jarl hadn’t noticed that before, but then again he was most often focused on the rest of the bard’s appearance. Height wasn’t exactly significant. He had also forgotten that Laronen had said that one of their ancestors on their father’s side had been a Breton. How many generations back? However many it was, it obviously hadn’t been enough to get rid of the red of their blush despite the gold skin of the triplets.

                “I suppose. But there is that Breton ancestor to thank for that charming blush of yours,” Ulfric stated.

                Loriel obviously hadn’t expected _that_ , and the Jarl could only smirk as he got to watch the elf turn scarlet from his cheeks and all the way down his neck, immediately looking embarrassed and a bit annoyed as he covered his face with a hand. “Oh shut up.”

                That made Ulfric _grin_.

                He wondered how far Loriel’s blush went.

                Loriel’s hand slipped down to his cheeks and those amber eyes flicked to Ulfric briefly before he turned away, not fast enough though for the Nord to miss the way the blush darkened.

                The elf stalked off and Ulfric followed, ready to continue their adventure through the ruins although this time Loriel seemed rather insistent on taking down as many Falmer as he could without Ulfric’s help. It was something else to see the way Loriel would fall completely calm, as if he was rolling dice rather than shooting down enemies. He was getting stronger with the bow, able to pull it back faster, hold it at full-draw longer. His accuracy was incredible.

                Watching Loriel turn on the platform he was on and shoot down a Falmer archer all the way on the other side of the chamber, he had to admit to himself that he wanted to watch how the muscles in Loriel’s back looked when he drew that bow.

                Finally, Ulfric realized that the Altmer had slaughtered the entire chamber on his lonesome.

                “Looks like you’ve done this before. Arson get here after you?”

                Loriel glanced up as he crouched by a Falmer to see what supplies he might be able to salvage, picking up a poison and some Falmer arrows. Arrows as jagged and ugly as their makers. “Yeah,” he said softly, gazing across the passage to a metal grating, “We didn’t run into each other until I was already in Blackreach.”

                The way he said it made Ulfric wonder if something bad had happened, somewhere between the lift to the Deep Market and Blackreach the first time around, but before he could ask, Loriel stood and started walking around the passage, gloved fingers trailing on the grate before he lead Ulfric to the next area.

                Loriel traded his grip on his bow for one on his blade, and the two of them walked side by side, avoiding and dismantling Dwemer creations as they could until Loriel politely tapped the third button out of four platforms that gave them access to the next room where beyond that was a large chamber practically littered with Falmer sulking about.

                None of them seemed aware of Ulfric and Loriel’s presence yet, at least not until Loriel flashed Ulfric a grin. He didn’t swap back to his bow as he normally did when encountering flesh and blood enemies and with a simple push, the gate opened and then the two of them brought hell down upon the Falmer.

                Unlike before with the Dwemer spheres and spiders, unlike Helgen’s Keep, Loriel’s movements were more flourished, aiming this time to be fast instead of strong, efficiently targeting the soft spots of the bodies rather than just aiming to do as much physical damage as he could, going for bleed-outs rather than put-downs.

                The style, Ulfric realized as the last Falmer fell, was reminiscent of the Alik’r warriors.

                Of course it was.

                Loriel had personally learned how to fight while in Hammerfell.

                Those eyes lifted to him behind fight-touseled hair and a grin reached those golden lips. Made of chaos and comfort, sadness and joy all at once, Ulfric couldn’t help but think that Loriel looked the exact same way he sounded when he sang.

                Beautiful.

                Absolutely beautiful.

                “Not bad, I could get used to fighting beside you,” Loriel said, sounding teasing and Ulfric snorted.

                “Flattery. I could get used to watching you fight.”

                “Sounds like you should come down to the training yard more often, it’s gotten warm enough to spar without armor.”

                Ah yes, Ysrarald had mentioned that a couple days ago.

                Ulfric chuckled. “Perhaps I will. Of course, thought, it looks like we don’t have to worry about that Centurion. Arson must have taken care of it,” he said, his glance sliding away from Loriel and to the bridge where a colossal metal figure laid collapsed in the doorway.

                Loriel snorted and stalked across the bridge, lightly stepping up the length of the Centurion’s body and through the open doors, Ulfric moving less gracefully after, his feet hitting the ground heavily, armor sounding loud in his ears as they hurried through cobwebs that had yet to be renewed by their tiny creators, and Loriel sighed as he saw the familiar sight of a Dwemer control panel surrounded by stairs going down.

                Instead though, he turned to his right and Ulfric could hear the joy in his voice as Lorie rushed forward.

                “Katria!”

                Ulfric sucked in a startled breath at the sight of the ghostly figure of a woman that Loriel so readily approached, translucent and with her hands propped on her hips.

                “Well you took your sweet time getting here, Mithnar.”

                Her voice, though strong, echoed strangely.

                And Loriel smiled sheepishly. “Sorry, I was a little distracted last time.”

                “Well at least you didn’t forget. Who’s your friend?”

                The attention was on him as Loriel gazed back to him and the grin Ulfric saw Loriel wear was warm, inviting him to approach. “Katria, this is Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak of Windhelm. Ulfric, this is Katria.”

                Ulfric approached, keeping his expression cool. “It is a pleasure to meet the leading expert on Aetherium, although I don’t believe that our friend mentioned your state to me,” he said, his gaze sliding over to Loriel, who looked sheepish again.

                “Ah yes, because telling people, ‘oh by the way, this friend that I’m helping is kind of dead too’ makes a lot of sense,” Katria said sarcastically and shook her head.

                “I meant no offense.”

                “I’ve gotten used to it.”

                Loriel’s gaze slid past Katria to the glowing shard of Aetherium on the table behind her.

                “That’s the last one,” he murmured, stepping over to it and he picked up the half-circled piece and turning it over in his hands, the ghost sighing with him.

                 “The last one,” she agreed. “We’re so close now. You know where the Forge is right?”

                “Yeah, the ruins of Bthalft, to the south of Ivarstead. I’ll try not to make you wait so long this time,” Loriel promised.

                Katria seemed to smile and reached out to playfully knuckle the elf’s cheek, “I’ll see you at the Forge then,” she told him and then, she disappeared.

                Leaving the elf and the man just as they had been.

                Alone together.

                Ulfric gazed at the piece as Loriel thoughtfully traced it with his hands.

                “Would you like me to accompany you on the rest of this adventure?” Ulfric asked, stepping over to him.

                “Would you like to?” Loriel asked, sounding surprised as those eyes looked to his.

                Amber to sea.

                Fire to water.

                “I would.”

                And the Altmer seemed relieved.

                And those eyes slid over Ulfric’s shoulder for a moment before coming back to his face.

                “There’s some place I want to show you,” Loriel started softly.

                It didn’t take much for Ulfric to realize what he wanted to show, not with their close proximity.

                Blackreach.

                Loriel wanted to show him Blackreach.

                And Ulfric smiled.

                “I believe we have time.”

                They had lots of time, now that Ulfric remembered it was only nearing supper time on the very first day.

                Strange how they hadn’t been gone for even half a day yet.

                That answer was enough to make _his_ bard smile something sweet and soft and all Ulfric wanted was to reach out and trace that smile with his fingertips. Instead, he kept his hands to himself as Loriel lead him down the stairs.

                Those hands were reaching out to push open the door when a loud squirming sound reached his ears.

                It was from the way Loriel froze in surprise that made Ulfric realize that had been Loriel’s _stomach_ , and he started laughing. Loriel covered his burning face with a hand as he shot Ulfric a look, looking both embarrassed and annoyed for the second time that day as he said, for the second time that day, “Oh shut up.”

                That made Ulfric _grin_.

                “Perhaps we should set up camp?” Ulfric suggested once he stopped laughing.

                Loriel rolled his eyes, turning to Ulfric with his hands behind his back against the door. “How about we set up camp in Blackreach instead? There’s a little place that I managed to clean up a bit last time, and if we get the hearth lit, it’ll be nice and warm too.”

                It sounded better than staying in the dark dankness of Raldbthar.

                “That sounds agreeable. Lead on then, bard.”

                Loriel snorted before he gave a slight bow and pushed the doors open, exposing a collosal cavern that should have been dark as pitch if the entire place hadn’t been lit by things just like the Aetherium shards, all glowing.

                Gemstone ore veins, rivers, the mist, even _mushrooms_ as tall as trees all gave off light and color in shades of blues, purples, and mild greens, white spores floating softly like snow as the two of them stepped through and into what felt like an entire new world. In the distance, an orb gleaming yellow like the sun.

                “Amazing…” Ulfric murmured in total awe.

                “Yeah…” Loriel murmured softly beside him.

                The Altmer pointed to the yellow orb, “That thing? It’s a fake sun to the cityscape that’s right below it, where the debate halls, the hall of rumination, pump houses, and catacombs were. I think the Dwemer used running water to help generate electricity to power their machines, or at least in the cities. I’m no expert on Dwemer machines though, so I’m betting I’m probably wrong. That orb though, that’s the strangest thing. Arrows seemed to pass right through the damn thing, but a Shout? The Dwemer were hiding a _dragon_ in it.”

                “A _dragon_? You can’t be serious,” Ulfric said in disbelief.

                “I’m serious, an actual dragon was living in that orb. It took forever to take down, even with the help of a giant it attacked.”

                Ulfric chuckled. “So Arson brought down a dragon even in a place like this. I can’t say I’m surprised,” he murmured and Loriel gave a shrug, drawing his bow. “I had the pleasure of seeing him fight one, once before. Witnessing how he devoured its soul was something else.”

                “It’s not really ‘devouring’,” Loriel muttered with a heavy sigh.

                Curiously, Ulfric waited for Loriel to go on, the archer lifting his bow and fired a shot into the distance, downing a Falmer that Ulfric hadn’t even seen until he heard a squawk and then silence, and when it was clear he wasn’t going to elaborate without help, Ulfric spoke up, “Arson described it to you?”

                Lifting his head, Loriel gazed out to the depths of Blackreach.

                “Arson… well… He said that to take a dragon’s soul isn’t a choice. It’s not something he would recommend. When a dragon dies near him, its soul rushes to him, like it’s trying to consume _him_ from the inside. It always would leave him feeling hot and sick for a while after. Sometimes, when it’s a really strong dragon, he said that sometimes he would be overcome by the last emotions of that dragon. The first few times it happened, he hurt people,” Loriel explained softly. And he shot another Falmer in the dark.

                Ulfric remembered the way Arson had lashed out at him when he reached out to him after the defeat of that dragon, told him in a voice of fury to not touch him.

                He remembered the way the Dragonborn wilted with exhaustion.

                And he wondered if part of that exhaustion had been the result of the taking of that dragon’s soul.

                The remainder of their travels were in silence, watching Loriel take down Falmer one by one along the way and be light on his feet as he hopped across stones in the river.

                “We’re near Alftand Cathedral now.”

                “We’re that far north?”

                “Yeah. Mountains are the majority of the distance above ground. Here though? Everything’s nice and even,” Loriel explained. “What would take a couple hours to reach on the surface maybe takes, eh, probably one, maybe less than that,” he said and then he grinned as he caught sight of what he was looking for, a small, almost quaint building across the way from an area of Dwemer architecture built into the wall of Blackreach. “Here we are, Sinderion’s Lab.”

                The door took a few hard shoves to get open, the hinges creaking so ungodly loud they might wake the dead, and the place was dark as Ulfric had expected Blackreach to be, but once the door was open enough for Loriel to be able to see, Loriel headed to the hearth right across the room, logs sitting neatly waiting, and he crouched to start the kindling.

                Loriel hummed happily when something caught and Ulfric shoved the door closed. The door was hard enough to open and shut that there was no way the two of them would get snuck up on.

                “So you stayed here the first time you came?”

                “Yeah. I was down here for a while, long enough that I almost ran out of food if it hadn’t been for the river. My sense of direction is shit when I can’t see the sky,” Loriel admitted as he stood, knees popping, and he came over to the table beside the hearth to undo his bag and settle the contents out.

                “Was Arson with you long?”

                “Not really. Long enough to make a mess of things with that orb and the dragon before we found the way to the oculory.”

                Ulfric chuckled. “That sounds like Arson.”

                “What? A troublemaker?”

                He shook his head. “Coming at the nick of time.”

                Ulfric heard Loriel sigh softly as he finished organizing his things and the Jarl gazed over to the elf.

                His body language was tight. Uncomfortable.

                “Something wrong?” Ulfric asked.

                Loriel shrugged. “Just thinking about… something that Arson had said last time. Something that bothered him.”

                “What was that?”

                The elf moved aside from the table and went over to a glowing alchemy set up, placing ingredients he had brought with and organizing them as well. Efficiently.

                “Do you think he would have been forced to make a political marriage after the war? If he had survived, I mean.”

                The question was startling but not one that Ulfric himself hadn’t entertained.

                To be truthful, a marriage to Arson would have been politically advantageous of whoever won the war, and especially beneficial to whomever was named High King of Skyrim, or High Queen should Elisif be named. But Arson be forced?

                “I don’t think he would have been forced, but he would have likely been the encouraged target of whoever became the new ruler of Skyrim,” Ulfric admitted.

                Loriel looked back to Ulfric.

                “Would you have?”

                The question startled Ulfric even more than the original topic did.

                The Jarl drew in a deep breath, blinking at the elf who regarded him, waiting for his answer.

                “The topic would have been brought up to me. Probably many times after I would have taken up the mantle. But would I have married the Dragonborn?”

                Ulfric gazed over Loriel with calm eyes, watching those brows gently pinch, a small frown on his lips.

                In that light, with the way Loriel’s eyes naturally turned down at the far corners, it made him appear almost sad.

                In the still air of the small room, Ulfric’s voice filled the area, warm as the growing fire itself.

                “No.”

                The Bear of Markarth turned to shrug off his travel bag and set aside the weapons he carried, the blessed shield, the heirloom to return, and his own axe, and with his back to _his_ elf, he began to unfasten his armor, continuing with, “I would not have married him. He was a free man and I have no right to force him to make a decision just because he was a prize to the country. Arson deserved to be with someone who loved him and who he loved in return. You even said yourself that he had been in love and had done everything that he had for someone he was in love with. Perhaps if Arson had lived, he would have gone and proposed to that person. I think he would have already been married long before the war came to an end, long before the Moot came to call. I imagine that he was also the sort of person who would not remarry if anything were to happen to that beloved person. Whoever it was who had his heart has no idea how lucky they must have been.”

                It was only when Ulfric stood in his chainmail that he gazed back to Loriel.

                The elf hadn’t moved, the only change in him was the look of surprise on his face.

                “Besides, I have seen too many political marriages burn to ash because the wedded couple couldn’t stand each other. I enjoyed Arson’s company, he was thoughtful and wise and humorous, but my times with him were far and few between, hardly enough to know him. I would never wed someone I barely knew, let alone did not love.”

                The answer seemed to be enough for Loriel.

                “So you would want to marry for love.”

                “Preferably.”

                It pleased Ulfric to see that answer had been one to make Loriel appear content.

                “Well, whoever gains your love will be very fortunate. You are a great man, Ulfric.”

                _A great man_.

                There were many times where Ulfric hardly felt like a _good_ man, but there Loriel was, calling him a great one.

                And for a moment, Ulfric really believed him.

                _Whoever gains your love_.

                Little did Loriel know that the very person he spoke of was himself.

                Quietly, Loriel turned over a bucket from the floor and stood. “I’m going to get some water for washing. Make yourself at home, I’ll be right back,” he explained before he pulled the door open with a hard yank and a tooth-grindingly annoying shriek of rusted hinges, disappearing out into the glowing blue yonder.

                Absently, now that Loriel was gone, Ulfric gazed about the small area.

                There was an enchanter, an alchemy table, a pot full of dirt, shelves and cabinets for storage, stone chairs settled in various spots, and a single large stone bed covered with musty furs.

                Just tugging the furs off of the surface caused a cloud of dust to rise into the air, making Ulfric cough and after a moment, sneeze several times quite loudly.

                The amount of dust that covered his shoes was astonishing and he pulled the furs out of the laboratory to shake them out in front of the stoop, his axe hanging from his belt and he held his breath with each hard shake he gave that made another cloud of dust to rise into the air.

                Loriel came back with the bucket full of water, surprise evident on his face and then a laugh bubbled up from his lips.

                “Look at you being all cute and domestic~” the Altmer teased with almost affection in his voice, making Ulfric’s cheeks warm.

                “These furs look like they have centuries worth of dust on them, I doubt you slept in them,” the Jarl said with an almost accusing tone as he restrained a cough, shaking a fistful of the fur almost threateningly at Loriel.

                “You’re right, I didn’t. I slept on the floor by the hearth in my bedroll,” the bard said with a smug expression as he walked past Ulfric and into the building.

                The dust clinging to the air was still enough to extract a set of vaguely familiar and considerably cute sneezes, “A-chf! A-ch! Chf! A-chf! Fuck!”

                Ulfric snickered as he stepped back inside, inquiring, “What exactly _did_ you clean when you were here?”

                Loriel rubbed his nose with a sniff, “The floor and shelves, mostly. There was dust about ankle deep in some areas. The cooking pot was _disgusting_. Thank the Divines for all the Dwemer pots, they heat nicely.”

                “Should have cleaned the bed too.”

                “I wasn’t exactly intending on coming back.”

                Yet here they were.

                Ulfric wiped down the stone bed before he put the furs back down and Loriel picked up a broom to sweep the dust out the door and once the contaminant was where it belonged, outside, the two of them shoved the door back shut and prepared to settle in for the night.

                Sitting by the fire, they quietly chattered over aimless topics as they passed a bottle of mead back and forth between them and ate more fitfully from their rations now that they had a good idea of time, shooting the shit until Loriel started yawning.

                Ulfric shrugged off the remains of his chainmail and his shoes, fingering the gash in his undershirt and inspecting the new, pink scar on his skin for a moment before he unrolled his bedroll on one side of the stone bed, Loriel’s already settled on the other side, and glanced back to watch the Altmer as he hung the armored overcoat over the back of a chair before undoing the fastenings of the heavy jacket beneath.

                “All of that looks quite warm,” Ulfric admitted as he debated over taking off his shirt. Perhaps not if the two of them would be sharing the bed. He didn’t want to make Loriel uncomfortable.

                “It looks it, but Gunmar made some alterations from the original set. It’s a lot lighter than it used to be, breathes a lot better too,” the elf answered before shrugging off the jacket, leaving him in the familiar cotton shirt he usually wore and he undid the wide leather belt from around his waist to untuck it. And finally, he sat down on the edge of the stone bed to pull off his boots and then he lounged back on his bedroll, sighing.

                Seeing the way Loriel chose to lay on his bedroll rather than in it made Ulfric decide to do as the other had, and feeling awkward, he laid down beside him, making his best effort to not brush the elf’s arm with his own.

                “Good night, Loriel,” he murmured.

                “Good night, Ulfric.”

                It was a formality at this point.

                So many words had been a formality and he wished nothing more than to reach out and say more, to reach out and do more, _be_ more to the other than just this, more than just a friend and a partner in an adventure.

                Ulfric wanted Loriel as his.

                He wanted to tell him so much.

                And in this setting, it was almost perfect.

                Maybe it was just the right moment, the two of them laying together in peace without any risk of mundane interruptions, far away from prying eyes and teasing grins and bets of friends, and the only thing keeping them apart was an inch or so of open air.

                “Loriel,” Ulfric started as he turned to the Altmer but his voice failed to continue with what he wanted to say.

                Loriel was already asleep.

                His expression as well as his body was completely relaxed, hands lightly folded over a chest that was slowly rising and falling with deep and even breaths, lashes incredibly long and among trailing along the skin near his temple, a lingering sign from his time at the hands of the Thalmor crept from the corner of his eyebrow into his hairline, curving along the edge of his ear before disappearing among the curtain of gold, and as he slept.

                It was those lips that consumed Ulfric’s attention, gently parted with just a hint of white teeth visible.

                Those lips that were so much fuller than the mouth of his mother.

                Those lips that never pinched tight the same way that Elenwen’s did.

                How ironic it was to fall in love with a son of the very woman who tortured him, a woman who had even tortured her own son too.

                Elenwen was an enemy to the both of them, hardly a mother in any regard beyond blood.

                And regardless of the blood they shared, Ulfric still loved Loriel.

                Ulfric loved Loriel before he knew really anything about Loriel’s family, before he knew anything about how Loriel lived before he came to Skyrim, or the awfulness of his father, or the hatred of his mother, or the very depth of his brother’s love.

                Sometime between that morning on the bridge when Loriel spoke of Solstheim and the day Ulfric gave the courier that letter composed of two words, he had fallen in love. He didn’t know when and it really didn’t matter.

                All that was certain was that he merely did.

                With all his heart.

                Breathing out a sigh, he rolled onto his side and reached out to gently trace his fingertips over Loriel’s cheek for just a moment, enjoying the warmth of his skin against his own, and he closed his eyes as he withdrew.

                “Good night,” he whispered, one last time.

                He rolled onto his other side and made an effort to get some sleep.

                Ulfric had no idea how long he laid there before he managed to slip off, but when he did dream, he dreamed of giant blue mushrooms and teal fog, the sweet smell of dragon’s tongue flowers and golden skin blushing red and warm eyes that glowed like candlelight, a solid body held to his chest with his nose nestled against a barely covered shoulder, and a very shapely backside pressed firmly against his own hips.

                He breathed in deeply that scent and sighed, hearing the faintest tones of laughter that roused him from his sleep.

                Brows furrowing, he felt the dream recede and his eyes blink open to wakefulness.

                The room was darker than it had been, the fire slowly dying, but in the dim light Ulfric could make out the gold of hair and skin. There was a very solid weight that he had an arm wrapped around, holding that form tight against his chest and his elbow felt tense from the way he had his arm curled, pillowing both his head and the head of the body in front of his, his legs tangled together with the other. He could also feel the sensation of fingertips stroking over his knuckles.

                Tiredly, he yawned as he rolled onto his back and groaned when he stretched out.

                Beside him, he felt the body he had released move, and when he relaxed, he opened his eyes.

                Loriel was sitting up and when their eyes met, Ulfric frowned at the mischievous look Loriel was wearing that characteristically never meant anything good.

                “That must have been a good dream,” the Mer’s voice purred and the Man frowned deeper for just a moment. It only took a moment longer before he realized exactly _what_ Loriel was referring to as well. His face must have _screamed_ his embarrassment and surprise, no doubt he was blushing without abandon because Loriel threw his head back with laughter the instant Ulfric dragged the corner of the furs over his groin in attempt to hide the morning wood straining against his pants.

                Grumbling as he turned away and threw his legs over the other side of the bed, he glared down at himself while Loriel continued to mirthfully cackle at his humiliation.

                Eventually though, the laughter died down and Loriel got to his feet, “Oh don’t sulk, it’s unbecoming of a king,” he said cheerfully, striding over to the table and picking through the rations for some breakfast, “besides,” he added as he approached with Ulfric’s share, “I finally have something to hold over your head~”

                Oh for the love of Talos…

                Giving the elf a half-hearted glare, he took the loaf of bread and tore off a bite.

                If anyone wanted to go on about having things over the other’s head, Ulfric certainly had a lot more to go off of than Loriel, after all, he had seen Loriel completely inebriated twice and one of those times he was intoxicated enough to not remember the better part of three hours he was conscious and telling stories of his past.

                “Oh? And what would that be?” Ulfric grumbled lowly.

                This was probably the first time Loriel had woken up before Ulfric did, and without a doubt had full knowledge of exactly _what_ had been so firmly pressed against the elf’s clothed backside.

                At the vague inquiry, Loriel turned to him and smiled.

                “The big bear himself is a cuddler.”

                Wha-

                Oh.

                _Oh_.

                _That_ was what Loriel had been laughing about?

                “You’re holding that over my head?” Ulfric inquired in some disbelief.

                The fact that he was a cuddler was hardly useful information nor half as embarrassing as waking up spooning against the object of his affection with a raging hard-on. Any man or woman Ulfric had taken to bed knew that Ulfric was a cuddler. Galmar knew he was a cuddler. Divines, half of the company Ulfric kept during the Great War knew he was a cuddler.

                And _that_ was what Loriel thought he could hold over his head?

                Loriel only grinned widely. “Eat. We’ve got a lot of exploring to do today.”

                And the Altmer said no more as he headed over to the alchemy lab to make a potion, potentially to replace the one they had used yesterday, leaving Ulfric to frown and grumble and eat his breakfast in remote silence.

                The fact that Ulfric was a cuddler mattered more to Loriel than waking up with a boner pressed against his ass.

                At least the way Loriel acted, the knowledge seemed to make him happy…

                That was a positive at least.

                Ulfric doubted that they would have had this bit of humor if Loriel had been awake long enough for the Jarl to tell him in that almost-perfect moment to tell him his feelings.

                But that moment was gone.

                No point in telling him now.

                The intimacy of the moment was gone.

                And when he finished eating his breakfast and Loriel had finished brewing his potion, they packed up and suited up for Loriel to show him the full wonders of Blackreach itself.

                For hours, they walked and explored, visiting the reeking towers and the silent ruins, touring the Silent City’s hall of rumination, debate halls, pumping stations, and catacombs, wondering over the mysterious Blackreach Orb, they stopped for a bit of lunch at the Farm Overseer’s house, and killed a giant near the Tower of Mzark, all before Loriel paused under a Dwemer pavilion.

                “You’re still here,” Ulfric heard the Altmer murmur.

                Curiously, he followed his bard’s gaze.

                Under a thick grove of mushrooms, the skeleton of a dragon lingered, smaller than the one Ulfric had seen Arson face off against to the south of Kynesgrove, and Loriel approached it without hesitation.

                He had already shot down half of the Falmer in Blackreach it felt like and as long as they were quiet, none of the blind creatures would know where they were.

                Silently, Loriel traced his fingertips over the skull of the dragon.

                Thoughtful.

                Gentle.

                Almost saddened.

                “Vulthuryol, the dragon of the orb.”

                The Dovah-zul name rolled cleanly off of Loriel’s tongue.

                “That was its name?”

                Loriel nodded.

                “Sometimes, names are strongly tied to the dragon’s soul. Sometimes memories. Mostly emotions though. Or at least, that’s how Arson explained it to me,” Loriel added as an afterthought.

                Ulfric only wondered how much more his elf had learned from the Dragonborn.

                He certainly knew more than at least a good quarter of Skyrim thought they had learned from the man.

                “He must have trusted you quite a bit to tell you so much.”

                Loriel only shrugged.

                “Maybe. Maybe he just wanted to be heard.”

                Maybe.

                Regardless of what it was, Arson had given something to Loriel that he had given no one else.

                So much truth.

                Arson trusted Loriel enough to disclose that they had a mutual illness of heartsickness, had told him so many little details as well, about dragons, about hurting, about just the way the inside of his head worked, he even entrusted Loriel with delivering the dossier that contained vital information directly to Ulfric rather than tracking the Jarl down himself.

                Arson trusted Loriel.

                And that trust didn’t come easily, Ulfric knew.

                Drawing in a deep breath, Loriel looked up to the tower in the middle of the swirling river, thoughtful before he shook his head and lead Ulfric away and back along a familiar path towards Raldbthar’s Deep Market, however they strayed from that path until they found themselves at a lift.

                “Home, here we come,” Loriel murmured as they stepped inside and the Altmer pulled the gate closed behind them.

                Finally, he pulled the lever and they ascended towards the surface.

                The dull gleam of Dwemer lights flashed over their faces as they stood in silence, Loriel’s expression far away and Ulfric’s thoughts revolving around the mystery that always would be Arson and his trust in Loriel, Loriel himself, and the Jarl’s love for the elf.

                Arson had trusted Loriel, had trusted Laronen as well, and he thought about the riddle Arson had given him.

                He never did figure out what the answer was.

                And he wasn’t sure if Laronen knew the answer either.

                But Loriel…

                Loriel was clever.

                He was intelligent even when he thought he wasn’t, witty and brash. He knew people, not only with his connections but he could _read_ people. And even if Loriel didn’t return his affections, there _was_ a way to keep his elf safe for good if the day was to come where Ulfric might wear the mantle of High King.

                His voice broke through the silence, warm and strong. “Over half a year ago, I ran into Arson while he was fighting a dragon near Kynesgrove. It was before he went to face off against the World Eater. Before he requested the peace council. It was the first and only time I got to see how that man fought, to witness the way he conquered that beast both physically and spiritually.”

                He could feel Loriel’s eyes move over to him but he kept watching the lights as they flashed by.

                “That day, he asked me to protect someone who had been undeniably useful to him in his efforts against the Thalmor. He wouldn’t tell me who it was though. He said I would know if I heard a certain riddle. And all these months later, I still haven’t figured out what the answer is.”

                A small laugh was nearly lost to the sounds of the lift.

                “Riddles can be tricky.”

                “I think this one especially is. Perhaps you might know the answer?” Ulfric suggested, gazing to him.

                A light flashed by long enough for the Jarl to see the expression of surprise and vague curiosity.

                “Perhaps. What’s the riddle?”

                Closing his eyes, he tried to remember the exact words, and after a moment, he recalled and repeated, “This thing all things devours: birds, beasts, trees, flowers; gnaws iron, bites steel; grinds hard stones to meal; slays kings, ruins towns, and beats high mountains down.”

                Ulfric’s blue eyes opened to witness Loriel bowing his head with a small laugh, smiling to himself before amber eyes met the Jarl’s with an expression both soft and playful all at once, and his voice came without hesitation as the glow of daylight seeped into the lift as it slowed to a halt.

                “Time. The answer is time.”

                It was that simple.

                The sunlight and the snow was so brilliant after spending almost two days in poor lighting made Ulfric’s eyes water, and he inhaled deeply the crisp scent of fresh air. As amazing as Blackreach had been, the Jarl knew he belonged above ground, just the same was true of the elf he loved.

                The only place a creature of gold and amber like Loriel belonged was someplace where the warmth of the sun could touch.

                A Mer like Loriel belonged someplace where he could be free from worries and fears.

                A man like Loriel belonged someplace where he could be safe from all harm.

                And right now, Ulfric could offer two of those things, especially under an offer that would grant Loriel and incredible amount of protection and would simultaneously guarantee that the Altmer would never be far from Ulfric’s side, even if they could never become anything more than they were now.

                “I want you to become my advisor when I become High King.”


	31. Chapter Thirty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just FYI, this is also posted on my Fanfiction account too. Same name, same story. Enjoy. And don't forget to comment please.

                Just as he had always done before, Loriel never left him without some sort of an answer, even in the startled expression that turned to confusion and then conflict, in the hesitation in his voice, all before he gave an answer in the form of a question in return.

                _“I… um… Can… Can I have time to think about it?”_

                Ulfric knew that it was a big decision he was asking Loriel to make, even if the question was only a placeholder in case nothing came to fruit in the time between now and the Moot, and the Jarl was content to give the bard all the time that he needed.

                It was the weight of the question that seemed to settle heavily upon the Altmer, drawing him into silence as the two of them trudged through melting snow and down the road towards Windhelm where they were greeted by Ralof, the captain of the Windhelm guards, and another man who Ulfric recognized as one of his own soldiers who had been rescued from the Thalmor’s clutches alongside Loriel, although his name Ulfric couldn’t remember at the moment. In all three Nords, there was a sense of unease that bothered Ulfric.

                Something bad had happened in his absence and his thoughts immediately jumped to the name on the Dark Brotherhood assassin’s list.

                Was Nilsine alright?

                Ulfric didn’t need to ask any of the men to receive answers though.

                “The Emperor’s cousin was murdered, sir, during her own wedding,” the captain stated.

                “How long ago?” the Jarl demanded.

                “The day before yesterday. Word around Solitude was that it was Dark Brotherhood work.”

                “Is Asgeir alright?” Loriel cut in sharply.

                _Asgeir_?

                The look of confusion that the captain, Ralof, and the other man gave him encouraged him to elaborate, “Vittoria Vici’s fiancé, Asgeir Snow-Shod of Riften. Is he alright?”

                The captain frowned deeply, “As far as I’m aware,” he answered, although that was all he could get out before Loriel hurried past him and into the city, leaving the four Nords staring in surprise as the heavy door of the city creaked closed behind him.

                The news upset Loriel considerably.

                Curious as Ulfric was, he knew that the chances of it being caused by Loriel personally knowing the bride from his time of living in Solitude or perhaps the groom was one of his connections in Riften were high. He knew so many people and was so well connected in Tamriel from his travels that it wouldn’t surprise the Jarl at that point.

                After getting as many details out of the captain as he could about the event, the Jarl finally stepped inside the city and his first order of business was to speak to the Shatter-Shield’s, to check on Nilsine, who was fine, return the family’s missing heirloom, which they were grateful for, and inform them of the thief’s demise, which they all agreed was well deserved, all before he headed back to the Palace where he was greeted by Galmar.

                “I see you heard the news about the royal family,” he said gruffly.

                “I have. The Dark Brotherhood is treading in dangerous territory, targeting cousin of the Emperor himself.”

                Galmar did not disagree before he filled Ulfric in on the happenings of Windhelm in his absence. Nothing too out of the ordinary although Galmar had to arrest his own brother the day before for getting blackout drunk and assaulting a Dunmer who had the misfortune of being near the man when he decided to go irate.

                Rolff Stone-Fist was still nursing his hangover in his cell in the Bloodworks.

                The housecarl had mentioned that a notice had been sent up from the East Empire’s docks that something had come for Loriel, no doubt a reply from one of his contacts, when there was a small clatter from behind the door to the North Wing that drew the attention of both Nords to the door, the sound akin to someone stumbling on the stairs, right before Loriel came through and hurried out of the war room, limping slightly from his evident fall.

                The Jarl did not miss the folded pages clutched tightly in his hand.

                Letters.

                After a moment, Galmar stated, “What’s wrong with your lover?”

                Ulfric’s face went hot, “I’m ignoring that last part,” he muttered and heaved a sigh. “He seemed quite upset when he heard about the murder of the Emperor’s cousin and concerned over the woman’s fiancé, I’m assuming he was familiar with one if not both of them.”

                “So a letter of condolence to the morning groom?”

                “Perhaps.”

                Galmar heaved a sigh and then asked, “So how was the adventure? I’m assuming you’ve once again made me lose a bet.”

                “You’d be correct,” Ulfric responded with a slight smirk, “It was an opportunity I wouldn’t trade though. Dwemer ruins are fascinating although I wouldn’t fancy visiting one on my own,” he added, absently fingering the gouge in his armor, “Constructs and traps filled the place and the depths were thick with Falmer. Blackreach though… That place was something else.”

                His housecarl gave him a look and Ulfric raised a brow.

                “Well, go on. Tell me what happened.”

                It made him chuckle and he shook his head, motioning for Galmar to follow him. He would tell him while taking off his armor. The sooner it got into the smith’s hands, the better.

                And so he told Galmar of his adventure through Blackreach, describing the enormous cavern full of lights from stones and water and mist and mushrooms, the Falmer, the remains of the dragon, he told Galmar about Arson and Loriel adventuring through the place before Arson had gone to battle the great black dragon on the peak of the Throat of the World. Finally, to humor Galmar, he did tell him about their one intimate interaction, even if it was only one-sided.

                And much to Ulfric’s humiliation, Galmar could only laugh.

                Loudly.

                “Talos, and the elf didn’t say anything?” the other man asked, wiping his eyes as Ulfric pull his undershirt off from over his head.

                Ulfric wrinkled his nose in his embarrassment as he fingered the tear in the material, remembering quite _clearly_ what Loriel had said right before he caught his meaning and covered himself. There was no _way_ Loriel missed _that_.

                Not with how hard Ulfric had been and how they were pressed up against each other.

                The shit Galmar would give him if he admitted that Loriel had said _That must have been a good dream_.

                Instead, Ulfric sighed and set the undershirt over the back of a chair, a maid would get it in the morning and mend it. “He made fun of me for being a cuddler,” he admitted, not willing to give Galmar the whole truth. It was true though, Loriel had persisted more on the fact that Ulfric cuddled in his sleep rather than pursue Ulfric’s jutting problem they had woken up to.

                Galmar’s stared at him in disbelief.

                “Seriously?”

                Scratching his stomach for a moment before his fingers traced over the new scar, the healed skin still sensitive and pink, Ulfric frowned and nothing and Galmar seemed to take his silence into consideration.

                “Hm. Well then,” his housecarl sighed, “Perhaps he’s not interested.”

                It hadn’t been the first time Ulfric thought that.

                The thought that Loriel might not led him to a different thought.

                “I asked him to be my advisor if I become High King.”

                Galmar blinked in surprise, “There is no ‘if’, Ulfric. Skyrim needs a king, not some dirty Septim-lover queen. You will be that king,” he stated with a tone of finality, “And why would you ask him to be your advisor? You would be High King, you could have that elf as your husband if you desired it.”

                _Husband_.

                Hearing the word aloud and attached to the thought of Loriel made his heart thump against his ribs a little harder.

                “I would not force him into a marriage he would not want. I asked him for the assurance that even if he wasn’t interested in me that way, he would still be at my side.”

                “And what did he say?”

                Ulfric gazed down at the damaged chestplate and chainmail that had been set aside to be sent down to Oengul.

                “He asked for time.”

                His voice was soft, and Galmar picked up on the very subtle tones of worry.

                Scoffing, he settled a hard hand on Ulfric’s bare shoulder and squeezed it hard with a shake, “He’ll come around, the elf is no fool,” he assured before he picked up the armor. “I’ll make sure these make their way into the hands of the smith. When do you want them back?”

                “There’s no rush,” he sighed, knowing that Oengul would still make him top priority regardless of what he said.

                Regardless of the armor as well, Loriel and he had not discussed when they would finish their adventure. Perhaps once the armor was repaired they would continue. Until they sat down and talked though, the question would continue to be up in the air.

                Galmar left without any further word, taking the armor with him, and Ulfric pulled on a clean shirt.

                Both of them needed a bath but Ulfric was willing to wait until morning.

                _Talos_ , he wanted to take a bath _with_ his elf.

                Maybe one day.

                Maybe…

                Hm.

                Now there was an idea.

                The hotsprings to the south would be nice. Perhaps when they head out to finish that quest…

                He didn’t let his thoughts linger on the idea, least he delay his own meal, and he retreated down to the main hall.

                Baby was perched on Loriel’s back while the Mer ate, nudging and nuzzling and climbing over his shoulders and purring loudly with every bit of attention that the Altmer gave him, and when Ulfric sat down, Baby hopped onto the table only to get picked up by Loriel, “Uh-huh, off the table,” and deposited him on the floor.

                Ulfric had let Baby get away with bad habits in the Altmer’s absence from Windhelm in favor of visiting Forgotten Vale and it was obvious Loriel was still trying to correct them. Humor reached Ulfric’s eyes as they met across the table and it seemed Loriel couldn’t stop the playful smile from rising to his mouth, even as he rolled his eyes.

                Despite the unease that had existed on their way back to the city and the distress that came with the news of Vittoria Vici’s murder, Loriel seemed peaceful in that moment.

                Except Loriel wasn’t in the mood to talk.

                The meal was almost unbearably quiet.

                Baby seemed to make up most of the chatter in the main hall that meal.

                In fact, Loriel didn’t seem to have much of an appetite either because he ended up cutting up what was left of his meat and putting the plate down on the floor for Baby to eat, just quietly watching the cat as he scarfed down the morsels.

                “Is something bothering you?” Ulfric finally asked when the silence became too much.

                This made Loriel look to him in some surprise and then his gaze dropped.

                Then shifted back towards his cat.

                He folded his hands with his elbows propped on the table. “It’s just… Vittoria’s murder. I’m worried about how Asgeir’s doing,” he admitted softly.

                “You were close with him?”

                “I was close with his sister,” he said softly. “Back when I first came to Skyrim, I had befriended Vulwulf, their father, and when I came back from Solsthiem, I went to visit him. Asgeir was distrustful of me back then, even with his father’s reassurance that I was one of the _good_ elves, but his sister was such a sweet little girl. She could barely say the name I went by back then, Lovira, so she called me Uk-Love. Uncle Love, as she grew older. And even after I left the Dawnguard and became a bard, I would visit her every so often.” And he smiled fondly.

                And then his smile saddened and faded.

                “The last time I saw her was when your war had just started. She told me she was going to join the fight as a battle maiden. In your army.”

                There was an undeniable sense of loss in Loriel’s voice and he had to ask.

                “What was her name?”

                Loriel’s eyes closed.

                “Lilija.”

                Lilija Snow-Shod.

                A battle maiden in his army.

                He knew that name.

                Divines knew he recalled every healer that he had lost in this war of his, he had too few among his ranks.

                The name Lilija Snow-Shod from Riften had been among list of those who had been lost in an Imperial assault on one of the Forts under his control. As much as Ulfric tried to return the dead to their families, there were some who could not be returned…

                The Imperials had a tendency to burn the dead.

                And she had been like a niece to Loriel.

                “I’m sorry for taking her from you,” he said softly.

                Loriel shook his head. “You didn’t take her from me, Ulfric. She died doing what she believed in.”

                “That doesn’t make a good excuse.”

                “It will have to be good enough. I can’t hold you accountable for every death on the battlefield.”

                “But they are my fault.”

                “Ulfric.”

                “You might not hold me accountable for every death on the battlefield but every man and woman who fights under my banner, who has _died_ under my banner, who has been caught up in the storm that _I_ created is my responsibility. I will still be held responsible for my actions, just like any other man.”

                Those amber eyes gazed at him softly, and he drew a breath, wanting to say more but he couldn’t find words.

                And Loriel gave him a small smile.

                “Skyrim will be lucky to have you as her king.”

                It was words like that made his pain feel less so.

                Numbed, if only a little.

                The moment was ruined when Baby hopped onto the table between them and meowed loudly in Ulfric’s face, spurring laughter from both of them and Loriel stood to collect his cat into his arms.

                “I should go clean up,” the Altmer stated, rubbing his fur-child’s ears.

                “There’s a bath no doubt being heated. Go ahead and use it.”

                Loriel raised a brow at him.

                “I prefer mine in the morning,” Ulfric stated.

                The bard snorted and shook his head, “For a Nord, you care about your hygiene quite a bit.”

                Ulfric chuckled, “As part of being a Jarl I suppose.”

                “If you say so,” he replied, rolling his eyes and he gave Ulfric’s shoulder a squeeze as he rounded the table with his cat to head back upstairs, likely to enjoy a bath and go to bed.

                The rest of the evening was quiet, peaceful, and although Ulfric still felt dirty from the adventure, he clambered into his bed and allowed a peaceful sigh to escape him from being able to take in the comfort that was entirely _home_ to him.

                He could not escape his thoughts however, and he allowed himself to retrace the last two days that had been just Loriel and him in that Dwemer ruin. How stunning and focus Loriel looked with that bow in his hands, the way he moved, the way he could cut down Falmer with ease and took apart Dwarven constructs with practiced precision. The blood that dripped down his arms from the spider that he drove his blade into, and the way Loriel’s hand felt against his wound. Against his skin.

                He saw two scars, one created right in front of him and one decades old.

                He had not seen the other side of Ulfric’s torso that was littered with lightning scars not half as bad as the Altmer’s own scars, angry and pink on his light Nord skin unlike the hue of dark bronze they were on Loriel’s body.

                Ulfric had seen Loriel almost completely bare and yet all Loriel had seen of him was that small section of his abdomen, his hands, feet, and face. That was all the elf knew of his body.

                He would ask Loriel about going to the hotsprings.

                Then they would be even.

                And perhaps he would see the rest of Loriel’s scars.

                Every single one that he wanted to press his mouth to and make new blemishes on his skin to cover the old.

                One day he prayed that he would be able to put action to the desire.

                That one day, he wouldn’t hide his desire for the Mer at all.

                That the other might have a desire for him as well.

                He did not dream of Loriel that night and in fact did not dream at all. Once more, Ulfric rose with the sun, meditated, bathed, prayed at the temple, and then returned to his duties as a Jarl as he always would until the day he died.

                Ulfric spotted his bard sparingly through the day, exchanging words only briefly before this or that matter was brought to his attention and they parted ways. Loriel always shot him a small smile when their eyes met. Those smiles motivated him through the day, that day, and the next.

                He did not see Loriel the day after though, and Ysrarald had stated that the Altmer had gone down to train in the yard but he didn’t seem well. His thoughts were elsewhere. Laronen suggested that it might have just been one of those days where his Legionnaire’s might have acted up that morning, he was usually rather recluse when it happened.

                It was the following day that he spotted Loriel but he was not seen.

                Loriel was standing at the entrance of the hall to his brother’s room, his back to Ulfric, and he was speaking to the man that Ulfric recognized as the other Nord who had greeted them at the bridge, the one that had been rescued with the Altmer from Northwatch.

                “-of course. I’m surprised you haven’t joined the fight though.”

                “Thorald… We talked about this.”

                Loriel sounded exasperated, exhausted as he spoke to the man.

                “That was over a year ago. You’ve had plenty of time to change your mind,” the Nord argued.

                “It’s not a matter of changing my mind, Thorald,” Loriel stated, “You know I’ve backed Ulfric’s cause from the get-go.”

                “I’m not questioning your loyalties, Loriel, but what have you _done_? We have soldiers out there who are dying every day and you could be out there-”

                “I have done more than you realize, I’m not going to discuss this with you any further,” the Altmer said, his voice low and calm. Ulfric felt like he was eavesdropping on something intimate and he returned to his normal gait, hearing but only one more statement from either of them as he drew away from the hall.

                “But-”

                “Go write your mother, Thorald Grey-Mane” he cut the Nord off with a tone of finality. “I’ll make sure she gets it.”

                The two of them knew each other from before Grey-Mane had joined the Stormcloaks it seemed, before the man had been captured in a skirmish that ended him up in the hands of the Thalmor. They knew each other from Northwatch as well, they had been rescued together after all, but what had that been about.

                He wanted to ask but Ulfric felt that he had already invaded upon Loriel’s privacy with just overhearing, so he did not.

                A few days later though, _he_ showed up.

                In the early morning while Loriel had managed to come down to have breakfast with him for the first time in a while, in the middle of his own bite of toast, the door of the main hall opened and Loriel glanced up.

                The guards looked startled to see an Orc walk in, and for a moment, Loriel looked away before he stopped, eyes going wide, and his head wretched back in the direction of the entrance.

                The Altmer couldn’t yank himself out of his seat fast enough and he sprinted straight down the hall to the Orc who opened his arms and the elf crashed into him in an embrace. The Orc was not knocked off his feet from the impact, arms hard around Loriel’s middle as they hugged each other tightly, the other Mer going so far as to _lift_ Loriel off his feet.

                His laughter was bold and rounded and smoky, and Loriel’s voice was full of joy.

                Curious, Ulfic stood and approached just as the Orc settled Loriel back on his feet.

                “You look beautiful as ever, Honeybee,” the Orc told him, arms relaxed but still about the Altmer’s waist.

                “Bat…”

                Ulfric could see the blush that rose to the bard’s ears.

                “And you’ve let your hair grow back out. Just as pretty as the last time I saw you.”

                Then Ulfric saw the smile Loriel wore.

                Soft.

                Sweet.

                And filled with adoration.  

                Enough to the point that it almost felt like a chunk of ice had slipped into Ulfric’s stomach, along with a sensation that the Nord had not felt in over half a year, not since the day Isran first showed up.

                And it was not territorial this time.

                Ulfric must have made a sound because the attention of both Mer were drawn to him and Loriel grinned big.

                “Ulfric, I want you to meet Bat the Axe, my best friend from the Dawnguard,” he introduced the Orc before turning his amber eyes back to the Orc who had slipped his arms from around the slim elf but still has his _hands_ on him, “Bat, this is Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak.”

                With the light shoes Loriel was wearing, Ulfric could infact see how tall Loriel really was, standing at the exact same height as this Orc whose olive green skin looked grungy with travel. He had the same sort of face that all Orcs seemed to have, heavy jawed with large tusk like teeth jutting up from his thick lips that were surrounded by a short-kept beard of dark brown. Above those was a squat nose and eyes the same murky color as yellow squash, and above those were heavy and thick brows. His hair was pulled back into a short ponytail at the back of his skull.

                He was built even sturdier than Ulfric, closer to that of a seasoned blacksmith, and the Jarl could see the bulk in those arms.

                He didn’t like those arms around Loriel at all.

                He didn’t like those hands with those thick fingers on _his_ Altmer.

                “Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak, leader of the rebellion against the Imperials,” Bat voice practically purred, low and rumbling like a storm. “I believe this is not the first time we have met.”

                “Have we?” Ulfric murmured, not recognizing him.

                “The Great War, our companies occasionally fought together against the Dominion. You fought like a beast,” and he grinned, slow, broad, and wide. “I’ve come to give my personal response to Lovira’s _diplomatic_ letter,” and Bat gazed to the Altmer with fondness in those ugly yellow eyes, “Who would have thought my bard would have finally joined the war against the tyranny of the Dominion.”

                And Ulfric _hated_ the way the Orc called Loriel _his_.

                Loriel scoffed, “I’m only doing this politically, Bat, don’t get ahead of yourself.”

                “Mm-hm, sure.”

                The Orc sounded skeptical but the sly look he gave the golden Mer went missed only by the bard himself.

                Ulfric shifted to hide his clenched fists behind his back and he swallowed thickly before he allowed the words to come forth, “I won’t keep you from your friend,” he told Loriel, “It has been some time for the two of you.”

                “Sixteen years,” Bat agreed.

                Loriel only smiled and looked to Bat, “Come sit with me. Tell me what has been happening in your life,” he requested as he lead the Orc to the table, the entire time the ex-Legionnaire never taking his hand off the Altmer’s waist.

                Ulfric didn’t feel hungry anymore.

                Retreating to the war room quickly, he drew in deep, calming breaths.

                _Su’um ahrk morah_.

                Breathe and focus.

                They were just friends.

                Close friends.

                Best friends.

                There was no need to get anxious or jealous. They hadn’t seen each other in sixteen years. They were just friends.

                He had to tell himself that every time that he caught a glimpse of Loriel and Bat throughout the day.

                The _Orc_ was always touching Loriel, be it with an arm thrown over the Altmer’s shoulder, or around his waist, or a hand on the small of his back or his shoulder. On one occasion, Bat had his arms wrapped around Loriel’s waist with their foreheads pressed together.

                He had never seen Loriel so happy before.

                And he had never felt so jealous in his entire life.

                Ulfric had the _incredible_ urge to punch Galmar’s teeth in the moment his housecarl dared to tease him with the fact that it looked like Loriel already had a lover. He could only respond with shoving Galmar against a wall before stalking away when the man told him, “You should have told him. That could be you.”

                His housecarl didn’t say a word after that.

                Loriel was humming brightly as he returned to the Palace of the Kings after seeing his friend down to his room that he had purchased at Candlehearth Hall. He was an Orc Chieftain in Hammerfell, somewhere in the Dragontail Mountains in Hammerfell. His visit would be noticed. And it did not bode well with other plans.

                “Loriel,” he called out, now that the Altmer was without his company, on his way to bed no doubt and cheerful, the Altmer approached the Jarl, seemingly unaware that there might be a problem.

                “What can I do for you?”

                He was making this purely political even though it definitely felt personal, “Did you ask him to come here?”

                The Altmer was startled by the question, “No.”

                “Then why is he here? I thought we were supposed to be subtle about this.”

                It made the bard realize how much of a mistake the hot-headed Orc had made in both their names.

                Loriel drew a breath, “I’ll ask him to tone it down.”

                “It’s too late for that, Loriel. He’s here in Windhelm now. He is an Orc Chieftain in Hammerfell which is enough to turn heads as much as any orc does here in any city. And now he’s here in Windhelm. The Imperials will think we’re making a deal with the strongholds against them,” Ulfric scolded.

                The Altmer drew back, “Ulfric, he came to visit me. He’s my best friend and the Altmeri _and_ the Imperials know my aliases, Mithnar, Lovari, Coredalf, whatever other ones I’ve worn in Skyrim or while captured. They will look at this visit as a man visiting a friend as soon as news of his continued life reaches his ears. A spur of the moment, I want to do this,” Loriel challenged. “He and I are close and if any Imperial or Thalmor asks any old member of the Dawnguard they will tell them the exact same thing. I am known in Windhelm, I am not hiding, and this is not an alliance against the Impeials,” he reasoned

                “Your best friend about made a public display out of you earlier,” Ulfric snapped, not referring to one but all of Bat’s public displays of affection.

                “It’s _Bat_ , Ulfric, he is chieftain of his clan with three wives and five children, a former member of the Dawnguard, and my _friend_. Orcs have all sorts of outlandish behaviors to you Nords and friends are just as much as blood-kin.”

                “Loriel. He looked like he was going to make you be his fourth wife, not a blood-kin brother.”

                The Altmer rolled his eyes. “It’s _Bat_ , he’s always been like this with me,” he said as though it was answer enough.

                This entire conversation was giving Ulfric a headache and he sighed in defeat, rubbing his forehead.

                He had seen many Orcs display behavior that he thought was odd, the way they behaved among men and women and friends and lovers and Bat the Axe treated Loriel like a female Orc that he was interested in, bordering on being lovers, and it was frustrating that Loriel thought that ‘it’s Bat’ was a good enough answer. He pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration.

                It drew attention and it wasn’t good for Ulfric’s heart.

                “Could you ask him to tone it done?”

                He finally asked.

                Loriel sighed. “Sure.”

                And walked off without any further word.

                That night he dreamt of a sturdy olive green snake wrapping itself about a slim golden arm.

                And he woke up sick to his stomach.

                The public displays of affection that day were less obvious than they had been before, from what Ulfric had scene but the fact that they still happened made itself painfully obvious to Ulfric that this behavior between Loriel and Bat the Axe was going to be a nuisance to his brain until the day Bat either left or Ulfric staked his claim on Loriel.

                Neither of which seemed to be coming along very quickly.

                For next three days, he caught glimpses of _his_ Altmer and the Orc, always touching, always close, and Bat _always_ looked at Loriel with affection.

                Loriel looked happy.

                And it filled him with anger that he wasn’t in Bat’s place, making Loriel smile like that.

                Ulfric didn’t want to be anywhere near the two of them when they were together out of concern that he might reach out and punch the Orc for simply shifting his resting hand on Loriel. He didn’t want Bat touching Loriel at all. He could barely keep himself polite, barely political when speaking with Loriel either.

                And then.

                One morning, some six days after his arrival, Ulfric found himself face to face with the Orc in the north wing.

                In the early morning light, far earlier than normal due to the uneasy sleep he had suffered through, Ulfric descended the stairs from his room to go make his prayers at the temple. He could hear Galmar’s rattling snores and the quiet murmurs that Ysrarald made in his sleep still, he was so early. Above those noises though, he heard the sound of a door creaking open, one that he recognized by the way that the bottom edge mildly scraped against the ground.

                Loriel’s door.

                He was awake at this hour?

                A white hot feeling seared in his chest when he recognized the figure that was quietly closing the door though as Ulfric stood at the edge of that hall.

                Bat was frowning deeply as he stepped away from the door and turned around, flinching in surprise when he saw the Jarl standing and observing.

                It was all Ulfric could do to maintain his silence.

                “Jarl Ulfric.”

                That was Bat’s greeting.

                “Spending the night?” He couldn’t help the tone of irritation in his voice.

                “Could we speak about this elsewhere?”

                Ulfric slid his gaze away from the Orc, to the guards stationed about and the way they seemed uneasy about Bat, and finally, he nodded, pushing himself away from the stone wall and turning back around. He let Bat follow him into his room.

                And once the Orc was inside, he closed the door.

                “I would like to explain myself,” Bat stated immediately, “About Loriel and me. We’re not like that, not together I mean.”

                 “You have all of Windhelm fooled to think otherwise,” Ulfric grumbled with narrowed eyes.

                The Orc sighed and rubbed his face, “Jarl…”

                “I would appreciate the truth, Chieftain.”

                “You think I’m not giving you the truth?” Bat snapped. “I wouldn’t lie about him. Not to someone who Loriel trusts enough to tell his story to. Just, please. Just listen, alright?”

                The Jarl gritted his teeth and crossed his arms over his chest, feeling tired and bitter. “I’m listening.”

                It had been a long week and he wanted nothing more than to just have some relief for a little while. He was tired of feeling angry and frustrated and barely reigning in his temper with Loriel who was doing nothing more than spending time with someone who was all too handsy with him.

                Bat’s huffed breath shifted some of his hair in front of his eyes, loose and not in its ponytail for the time being. “Loriel said you were his greatest friend here in Windhelm, probably in the entire county too. He told me that he told you his story, about his heartsickness too, and you were understanding about it, something that doesn’t happen very often to him. But there’s one thing I know about Loriel that he doesn’t share with anyone, that he struggles to share with people, and it is that he won’t tell anyone when he’s having an episode.”

                The words came out in a rush and as Ulfric’s jaw went slack, Bat raised a hand, “Let me finish.”

                He drew in another breath and continued. “I don’t know why he’s so hush-hush about it, maybe it’s from the way he grew up, from his bastard parents or maybe it’s just the way that his heartsickness makes him think, but all I know is that he doesn’t tell because he’s convinced that if he tells anyone that he’ll somehow become a nuisance, that he’ll _bother_ people because he’s dealing with poison in his head. He doesn’t know that when he’s having a bad episode that his behavior has a tendency to draw people away when he really needs them closer. Which is why I’m so affectionate with him. Because it’s what he needs.”

                Ulfric’s brows furrowed, confused and not really _getting_ what Bat was saying. “I don’t understand. He hasn’t been pushing people away.”

                “Not like that. It’s the way he distances himself, doesn’t share like he normally does. Odd little things, like his heart isn’t in whatever he’s doing. Makes him look suspicious. Because he’s trying to act like nothing is wrong.”

                _That_ made sense.

                That made perfect sense.

                The way Loriel skirted around topics, the mild way his eyes shifted about, the uneasy behavior that Ulfric had seen in the days between Loriel returning from Forgotten Vale and Bat showing up, but also matching the behavior Ulfric had seen in Fort Amol, when Loriel gave him the Dossier from Arson, the day that Loriel had skirted about the topic of Elenwen, and the slashed scar at the small of his back. Little behaviors that once seemed odd made sense now.

                “You’re being affectionate because…”

                “Because that’s his best medicine against his heartsickness. Like putting salve on a burn, it takes away the itch, numbs the pain so it can recover a little better. Being around people who he likes and like him back help keep him interested in things that his heartsickness would otherwise make him feel uninterested in. Being social during meals helps him eat better when he’s otherwise be playing with his food. Sharing a bed with someone helps him sleep just a little bit better on nights that he can sleep. Little things. Being close to people helps him a little bit, but having physical contact, now that’s the sort of thing that makes him _happy_ when he’s feeling like he’s just struggling to feel _anything_ ,” Bat explained. “Have you ever payed attention to how he responds when he’s touched?”

                Memories flashed to the forefront of his mind.

                All those months back when Loriel was sick with fever and his back was ripped open by the lashes of a whip, the moment Ulfric cradled his jaw and cheek in his hand and felt the coarse hairs of the elf’s beard against his palm.

                He remembered the way Loriel leaned into the touch.

                Starved for any form of contact that wasn’t abuse.

                And he remembered the way his heart broke when he felt the first tear drip over his fingers.

                The way Laronen constantly stroked his brother’s skin while he was recovering from Northwatch Keep and the worst of his Legionnaire’s, cupping his neck with a gentle hand, playing with his hair. Little things that Ulfric hadn’t given a second thought to.

                The way Loriel didn’t pull away when Ulfric drew him into his arms on the night of the storm.

                The way Loriel’s fingertips lingered on Ulfric’s skin not only the first time Loriel gave him the twisted metal armband but _every_ time their skin touched.

                The way Loriel nuzzled against him that morning after Loriel had drank too much vintage and curled up against the Jarl, peaceful and relaxed.

                From the very first nudge to the very last stroke.

                Loriel’s skin always lingered.

                Remembering the contact.

                And somehow it thrilled Ulfric to realize just how _important_ every bit of those contacts had been to the Altmer.

                It also somehow made Bat’s behavior _almost_ excusable.

                He still didn’t like Bat touching Loriel but now he understood the logic behind it.

                “Is there anything else I can do to help him through his depression?” Ulfric asked. Contact, that was one thing, but there had to be more. There had to be something that could help Loriel even more.

                “Love him.”

                Bat’s eyes were unwavering as the Orc faced the Nord, calm and fearless and understanding.

                “Let him know that you care, even if you love him only as a friend. Let him know _constantly_ that you care, even when things are hard and he isn’t all that loveable and he can’t remember what it feels like to not feel tired, or he honestly believes that no one would miss him if he just up and disappeared. His heartsickness plays mind games on him and tricks him into thinking that he’s not worth the time or the energy or whatever. He needs people in his life who are willing to be stronger than that illness. It’s not an easy job, Jarl Ulfric, and it’s one that never ends, heartsickness doesn’t stop for anyone or anything, it shows up when it wants to and leaves when it feels like leaving, but the best thing you can do is make it feel unwelcome by letting Loriel know that he _is_ important, that someone _does_ care about him. That’s the only way to really help him. Think you can do it when I’m not here?”

                At the question, Ulfric couldn’t help the smile on his lips.

                “If you think you can share him while you _are_ here, I could help now.”

                That made Bat smile.

                “Good man.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One thing that I wanted to bring up in this chapter is that just because someone falls in love does _not_ magically cure things like PTSD or depression. I know I haven't written a whole lot of Ulfric's PTSD as or recent but that is primarily due to the fact that I feel he is overlooking the bad in favor of what good he is experiencing. Meanwhile with Loriel's depression, Bat is affectionate as a means to give Loriel some relief. We all have that one friend who just seems to _know_ what will help us out best, even if it's just in some small little way and Bat is that friend for Loriel. I've read too many stories where the leads get together and any problem that one of them was having magically disappears because _**THE POWER OF LOVE**_. Sorry, kids, doesn't happen in real life. The goal of this story is to portray the characters as they might be in real life, real people with real problems. In this era, they don't have medications to treat depression and magically make someone feel happy. They have people who have observed problems and what helps a bit and that's how they treat these problems. For Loriel, making sure he eats, sleeps, and stays active helps, but that's only the physical part of it. Mentally, he needs to be social and he needs reassurance that he's not a burden. Love is the best medicine for people, and if that doesn't work, what do you do?
> 
> You increase the dose.


	32. Chapte Thirty-One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just FYI, this is also posted on my Fanfiction account too. Same name, same story. Enjoy. And don't forget to comment please.

                “Bat, if you don’t get your finger off the top of that Oblivion-be-damned arrow you’re going to rip your finger open on the fletchings.”

                It had been four days since Ulfric and Bat’s talk and since the conversation, he was admittedly enjoying the benefits that came with the mutual understanding he now had with the Orc. Bat backed off a little bit more with the open affection, sedating Ulfric’s temper even more now that he knew _why_ he had been doing it, and Ulfric was calm, able to speak to both Altmer and Orsimer at once, even going so far as to seek their advice, not that it was entirely necessary, with a squabble that had been brought to his attention to the southern area of Eastmarch. Mostly it had been an excuse to rest a hand on the small of Loriel’s back while the golden elf looked over the map.

                Ulfric couldn’t help but notice the way that Loriel’s fingers hesitated under the touch, surprised for a moment, before he relaxed and spoke his suggestion.

                And each day, Ulfric couldn’t resist the temptation to _look_ for an excuse to be close to Loriel.

                A small brush of hands here, a playful jest that made them laugh. His favorite had been when Loriel came back from the training yard after sparring and had some straw in his hair. Bat purposely overlooked it so that Ulfric could do the grooming.

                The next few days had passed peacefully with the cooperation between the two warlords over the Altmer.

                And that day, upon the stupidity of Bat’s bragging to Loriel about being a good shot, the three of them were down at the training yard among the soldiers, and Ulfric was watching with amusement as Loriel verbally tore apart his friend’s ‘good shot’ brag.

                Bat couldn’t have hit the broad side of a barn even if he _tried_ , which he desperately was.

                “Just how much of a blessing of Auri-El was it just for you to manage to hit _a_ vampire by mistake, Bat? Goodness,” Loriel sighed as the eighth arrow shattered against the stone without hitting the target. The soldiers were giving the target area a wider birth than they usually did for the sake of Bat’s poor shooting skill.

                “It’s been a while since I handled a bow, okay?”

                “You’ve been handling those Dawnguard crossbows too much it seems,” Ulfric shot in with amusement.

                “Silence, _Nord_.”

                “Make me, _Orc_.”

                “Both of you can shut up. Bat, I swear to the Divines if you don’t stop collapsing your posture I’m going to tie a broom to you to make you stand straight.”

                Ulfric snickered to himself at the small victory against the Orc, watching as Loriel tried and failed time and time again to make Bat use proper shooting form to adjust his poor aim. Nothing was really working. Bat’s posture kept ‘collapsing’, as Loriel claimed, and it was obvious he just plain couldn’t aim right despite Loriel’s various suggestions as well as physical interventions, earning the Orc a few well-placed verbal jabs on behalf of the Jarl.

                Finally, Bat was tired of Ulfric’s called teases and turned to him, “If it’s so _incredibly_ easy, Jarl, you do it.”

                “Now you’re just trying to back out of shooting,” Loriel stated with an accusing tone at his friend.

                “So?”

                The banter between the two of them was so childish it was funny.

                But at Bat’s challenge, Ulfric couldn’t help but ponder.

                He wasn’t a terrible shot, not at all like Bat was as archery had been an encouraged talent by his mother while the axe had been his father’s influence, and the last time he had shot a bow had been during a patrol maybe eight or more months ago. It had been a while. And, now that he thought about it, Loriel had never seen him shoot either. So maybe it wasn’t such an awful idea.

                “Sure, why not?”

                That made both Bat and Loriel pause in their argument to look at him.

                “I’ll give it a go,” Ulfric clarified.

                The Orc mouthed something that looked vaguely similar to ‘ _Praise Malacath!_ ’ and readily handed the Bow of Auri-El to the Jarl before Loriel could allow a protest to fall out of his open mouth. The moment Ulfric took the bow, the Altmer let his mouth snap shut and he frowned, looking a bit perplexed.

                “Would you prefer to critique my work, bard?” Ulfric prodded the elf, earning himself a golden sneer.

                “If you think you can handle it, unlike some _Orc_ I know.”

                Bat made a sound of protest as Ulfric smirked and settled himself across the way from the target. For Bat’s sake, they had been situated closer to the targets, which suited Ulfric just fine. He didn’t have as good long-distance vision as the elf did or perhaps he used to but it was dwindling with his age. He wasn’t sure which one it really one. Either way, it didn’t really bother him. He was best suited for closer combat anyway, built to take a beating and give one in return, just the opposite of Loriel, who was had been created more for slipping under an opponent’s guard to get in an attack and retreating before the opponent could react, slashing with swords and sly with a bow from a distance.

                Fitting.

                Glancing to Loriel as he notched the arrow, their eyes met.

                Those amber eyes were focused only on him.

                And he wouldn’t have had it any other way.

                Breaking the contact, he turned his attention to the target.

                The divine bow felt almost heavy in his hand, warm like skin. Almost alive.

                Was this what Loriel felt every time he drew the bow?

                Or was this just the lingering sensation of the Orc’s hands on it?

                It didn’t matter.

                Closing his eyes, he nervously inhaled and held up the bow, his fingers stroking over the fletchings before hooking on the string. When he opened his eyes again, he drew back the heavy twine, slow and straining, feeling the material creak and bite against his skin, all the way to his shoulder. He wasn’t as practiced as Loriel with the resistance and he would be fortunate if his fingers were _only_ raw from this one shot, understanding now why Loriel always wore gloves while wielding the bow. He could still recall the way Loriel’s fingers bled when he had impulsively fired that arrow at Isran.

                He ignored the sounds of the soldiers training in the background, and among them, he could not hear anything but the creak of the bow.

                Loriel was silent.

                And Bat really didn’t matter.

                He tried to remember the way Loriel breathed when he shot the bow.

                He breathed in, out, and released between breaths.

                So Ulfric did the same.

                All that registered as he inhaled and then let it out was him, the target, the bow in his hand, and the sting of the string.

                And then, he let it go.

                The arrow zipped free of the bow and drove deep into the target, off center, but the sound of the arrow shattering against stone was surprisingly satisfying, drawing a smirk to his lips.

                Relaxing his arm, he gazed over to Loriel.

                “The master-archer’s perspective?” he murmured, raising a brow.

                Loriel’s lips were pursed slightly, his eyes fixated somewhere below his jaw before they raised to meet the Jarl’s.

                And just like he shot, he drew a breath and let it out.

                “Would you like to perfect your form?”

                Of course he would see flaws.

                “Show me.”

                The bard made him fall into stance, holding up the bow without drawing, and then, the elf approached.

                He came so close that Ulfric could briefly feel the other’s breath on his cheek, and with astonishing clarity, he became aware of the bard’s hand on his hip. “Your rear foot is making you collapse. Shoulders over hips over feet, straight up and down,” Loriel said softly, one foot coming to the side of his to draw it further under him. “There we go. That’s good. Can you feel the difference?”

                He could.

                The correction was minute, minor, not enough to notice to the untrained eye of an observer but he could feel the way his weight was more evenly settled by moving his rear foot just a couple inches in, no longer feeling the need to lean back because his hips were finally parallel with the ground.

                The adjustment _felt_ more comfortable.

                “Draw.”

                That was the simple instruction, and without shifting his feet or his hips, he notched another arrow and drew the string back.

                “Where is your aim?” he asked.

                “Center.”

                There was a soft sound and he felt Loriel’s fingertips under his chin, lightly lifting.

                “Straighten your neck. You don’t need to lean into the string to compensate for your stance anymore.”

                It made him realize he was aiming low.

                Once Loriel was pleased with the adjustment, the bard stepped away and circled behind him.

                And for a startling moment, Ulfric realized Loriel’s chest was pressed against his back.

                They were so close together it was almost intimate.

                He could feel every breath Loriel drew.

                Two fingers came to his leading elbow and an arm under his drawing arm. Those two fingers lifted slightly while the other held the position of his arm. It raised his aim a little, centering the arrow at the target.

                “Centered?”

                “Yes.”

                There was a soft breath between the two of them.

                Those two fingers trailed down his forearm and then, for just a moment, Ulfric felt the hesitation.

                And knew exactly what Loriel had felt.

                The twisted metal bracelet.

                To an onlooker, there was no hesitation, but _Ulfric_ saw it. He _felt_ it.

                And then he felt skin on his skin.

                A hand on his.

                “Breathe.”

                As he drew in a breath, Ulfric felt Loriel’s arm move from under his and that golden hand came to rest upon his chest, “Breathe from your chest, not your shoulders. In, not up. Feel it here,” he said, and Ulfric could feel the way one of those fingers tapped against the bottom of his diaphragm.

                The bard made the Jarl practice those breaths until his shoulders ached from his hold on the bow and Loriel was pleased that he was _breathing_ correctly, and then, with one final murmur, he gave a final instruction.

                “Exhale and release.”

                The result of the Altmer’s intervention was nothing short of perfection.

                With nothing more than a whisper of the bow, the hum of the cord, the bite at his fingers, the zip of the arrow, the impact, and the crack, the shot was dead center.

                Ulfric felt the laugh in Loriel’s chest more than he heard it.

                “Beautiful. Absolutely beautiful.”

                That was his praise, and their gaze met.

                Loriel looked _proud_ , his amber eyes twinkling with mirth and his smile was soft.

                “You’re a good student.”

                And Ulfric smiled.

                “You’re a good teacher.”

                “You two are so cute it’s almost disgusting.”

                Ulfric hated Bat _so_ very much.

                Both Altmer and Nord turned to the Orc, both red in the face with embarrassment and both scowling.

                “Get your ass over here if you think you have room to talk,” Loriel stated, drawing away from Ulfric, looking almost vaguely threatening despite his ears being bright red, and Bat bolted with a laugh, “Hey, get back here!”

                And the bard gave chase.

                Leaving Ulfric with the bow in his hands and a memory in his brain.

                One perfect memory, one perfect moment.

                It had been intimate and effortless.

                Beautiful and they hadn’t even been trying.

                And then that _Orc_ had to open his mouth.

                He watched as Loriel tackled Bat to the ground across the training yard and like two puppies play-fighting, they rolled around on the ground, cursing and laughing and wrestling.

                Friends.

                He supposed it wasn’t a completely ruined moment.

                Like whenever Laronen had a moment with Nilsine and Loriel gave him hell about it.

                There was playfulness in the action of being a pain in the ass.

                Almost nice.

                And Ulfric decided to savor the moment fully.

                Bat being a stupid braggart and Loriel shredding it apart like paper to the wind, Loriel trying to fix Bat’s flaws and failing likely due to the Orc’s own stubbornness, Bat’s challenge that brought Ulfric to stand before the target with Loriel’s bow in his hand, Loriel’s touch, at his hip, at his foot, at his jaw, at his elbows, down his arm, that dead-center shot.

                That _smile_.

                And Bat being impudent.

                It all came together.

                It was a good moment.

                And he smiled.

                He got hell for it when Galmar approached him that evening with his freshly repaired armor, jeering and teasing over what he had heard from Ysrarald about his and Loriel’s interrupted intimate moment but Ulfric was _almost_ too content to care.

                “You could have kissed him,” Galmar stated, rolling his eyes.

                “I could have,” he agreed.

                Now that he thought about it, he might have if Bat hadn’t interrupted, although kissing Loriel in front of his soldiers in the middle of the training yard hardly was a good idea.

                If rumors reached enemy ears, Loriel could be very well put in danger.

                It would be best to keep his affections for the Altmer bard to a very small circle.

                Galmar, Laronen, and Ysrarald were about all that Ulfric trusted to know, and two of them had figured it out on vastly on their own.

                Talos could only guess if Bat had figured it out too.

                If he had, he hadn’t said anything before that one tease in the training yard.

                Being left by his housecarl, Ulfric sat down on the edge of his bed, his mind still buzzing from the afternoon at the training yard. And then there was dinner. An especially quiet affair, now that Ulfric thought about it. Bat had done most of the talking, a source of humor that made even some of the guards’ steely resolve dwindle enough to crack up a bit, but Loriel had been… Odd.

                He smiled, and he laughed, and he ate, but he seemed…

                _Exhausted_.

                Not in a physical sense, like he just wanted to close his eyes and fall asleep, but in the mental sense.

                He just didn’t feel entirely _there_ at the meal.

                Bat had left shortly after they had finished eating to go back to his room at Candlehearth Hall and Loriel himself had retreated shortly thereafter with a small, tight smile and a murmured ‘good night’ to Ulfric.

                Despite both of their efforts, Loriel was still in the waters of his heartsickness, and it pained Ulfric to not know if he was treading water or not. He couldn’t _read_ the Altmer quite like Bat could. Divines only knew that if Bat hadn’t told him, Ulfric wouldn’t have known Loriel was fighting with his depression at all. It wasn’t like Loriel was willing to tell, after all it had been like pulling _teeth_ just to _learn_ that Loriel even _had_ heartsickness in the first place.

                He just wanted to _know_.

                He wanted to know when something was wrong.

                When things felt too much for him.

                What he felt he needed and what he wanted.

                He wanted to know.

                It was in that thought, though, that Ulfric remembered something that he hadn’t thought about in years, something he had been told by a beggar back in his youth, on a day he had asked the man why he begged, why he didn’t just work harder to get what he wanted.

                And the old man, half blind and half deaf, simply smiled and said “Because if you don’t _ask_ , my boy, the answer will always be no.”

                Just as he should have _asked_ Torygg before he challenged him.

                Just as he should have _asked_ Balgruuf before he risked losing a great potential ally at the start of this war.

                If he didn’t _ask_ Loriel, the answer would always be _no_.

                If he didn’t _tell_ Loriel that he wanted to know, then there would always be the chance that the elf simply _wouldn’t_.

                It was that decision that made Ulfric decide to delay his sleep a little longer. After all, with his armor back, he and Loriel could find time to finally finish the quest for Katria to find the Forge. He would be tactful with his approach to the topic, professional first and then he could lax to personal desire.

                As he approached Loriel’s room, he listened for any indication that Loriel might still be awake. Usually it was not abnormal at this hour to hear him plucking cords on his guitar before he would sleep, but tonight the halls were silent, which led to Ulfric’s light knock on the door.

                A soft, quizzical meow answered him.

                And then an equally soft, “It’s open.”

                It was a relief to hear his voice, just as much as it was to see him.

                Lazily stretched out over his bed, Loriel was dressed simply for sleep, his tired eyes immediately falling on Ulfric as he entered. He was obviously taking some tips from Baby in how to look oddly comfortable in odd positions because he looked considerably at home in the twisted pose he was rested in, all the while, the fuzzy orange creature cried out with glee as he hit the floor with a solid _thump_ and scampered to greet the Jarl.

                “What can I do for you, Ulfric?”

                He sounded as exhausted as he looked.

                “Are you alright?” he couldn’t help asking.

                “Just tired. I woke up too early this morning,” he excused himself before he shifted to lay in a more… human pose, Ulfric supposed the term would be, and relaxed again.

                “Bad dream?”

                “I really don’t remember.”

                Fair enough, there were many times where even he didn’t remember what he dreamed.

                Drawing in a breath, Ulfric leaned down and picked up Baby who had been twisting himself about the Nord’s legs, scratching the tomcat behind the ears to extract the warmest of purrs, “I wanted to know when you would like to go on the next leg of our adventure.”

                “Your armor is fixed?”

                He sounded so sleepy that he almost sounded surprised as he asked the question.

                “It was returned this afternoon.”

                Loriel pushed himself up to a sitting position. “How soon could you be available?”

                Ulfric smiled some. A repeat of the first time. _How soon?_ “A couple days at most. You said that the Ruin where the Forge is hidden is near Ivarstead, correct?”

                To this, Loriel nodded.

                “I’ll make sure to have a pair of horses ready for us then. A day’s travel can take a lot out of a man,” he stated.

                But Ulfric did not miss the way Loriel’s spine straightened and his mouth grew tight.

                He recognized that body language in the Altmer.

                Anxiety.

                “Something wrong with that idea?”

                Loriel jerked, shaking his head as he flushed. “No, no, there’s nothing wrong with it, it’s…” and his tenseness broke with a sigh, his shoulders falling as he gazed away, almost embarrassed. And disappointed. “It’s just that I haven’t been cozy with the idea riding horses by myself since Hammerfell. My horse decided to roll while I was still saddled. If I hadn’t managed to get off when I did, I would have been lucky to just experience a shattered leg.”

                Ulfric didn’t know why he seemed so disappointed, sharing that fact. He could see no flaw in the honest explanation that made sense of why Loriel had looked so uncomfortable riding back to Windhelm from Fort Amol all those months ago. It explained why he also always rode as a passenger with his brother when the two of them traveled.

                But since it would just be the two of them, Ulfric couldn’t help but ask. Just to make sure. “You would not be opposed to riding together then?”

                Loriel honestly didn’t seem to have expected the suggestion from the way he looked back at the Jarl, his brows raised in surprise. And then, after a moment to process what Ulfric had offered, the bard’s expression relaxed to an exhausted smile. “If you would be alright with it.”

                The Nord could only offer a reassuring smile in return. “I would not have offered if I was not.”

                A small laugh and Loriel nodded, rubbing his eyes.

                He was tired.

                Exhausted.

                But it was more than that.

                It _felt_ more than that.

                He was aware of it now.

                Bat made him realize it.

                Loriel hid himself so well from the world that it was almost impossible to see the sadness or the longing unless you already knew it was there. Ulfric knew that everyone had their disappointment and their baggage, but Loriel kept his close to his chest, like a hidden pocket in the lining of a vest.

                What Ulfric would do to be able to lift that incredible burden from his heart…

                “There’s something I’d like to ask of you,” Ulfric said calmly, bringing himself to approach and sit down beside him, keeping enough distance between them to maintain some form of comfort but as Baby climbed across their laps and circled, purring loudly, Ulfric placed his hands down on either side of himself.

                His little finger just slightly overlapping with Loriel’s.

                Loriel looked to him quietly, curiously. And Ulfric was aware of the way that long golden digit lifted slightly, curling up as much as it could. A small embrace to the touch.

                An appreciation of the contact, so mild but so tender as well.

                Like a promise made between children.

                This was a promise Ulfric asked of Loriel.

                “I want to know when things aren’t right for you. I want to know how I can help you, Loriel, but I can’t help you if you hide your pain. I can’t give you what you want or need if I don’t know if something is wrong. So, will you be honest with me?” Ulfric asked, looking to him with calm but concerned eyes, watching the bard’s face for a reaction to his request. “I don’t want you to feel that you have to fake being happy for anyone’s sake any more. Especially not mine.”

                He wanted to know.

                When something was wrong.

                When things felt too much for him.

                He wanted to know what Loriel wanted, just as much as he wanted to know what Loriel _needed_.

                He just wanted to _know_.

                For his own sake as much as for Loriel’s.

                And Loriel did react.

                Those eyes softened. They saddened. And in the tiredness he wore, Ulfric also picked up on maybe a fraction of how upset might have been feeling. His brows were pinched, and he was frowning.

                But his voice was clear in the quiet of the room, barely above a whisper.

                “I’ll try.”

                That’s all he could ask of Loriel.

                Just to try.

                After a moment, Loriel rubbed his eyes again, reminding the Nord that both of them needed their rest. Ulfric would have a long day, if not couple days, ahead of him to get everything squared away for finishing off their adventure, and Talos knew just how desperately Loriel needed good quality sleep.

                “I think you should get some rest. It’s late.”

                It was a beat before Ulfric felt Loriel’s finger slide out from under his, a rush of disappointment in the absence.

                And then relief when Loriel’s slim hand settled over his, those long fingers slipping between his own and giving a small squeeze. “Thank you. For your concern about me,” he said quietly. “Sometimes I forget that I don’t need to hide anymore.”

                Ulfric smiled, his fingers curling between Loriel’s comfortably. “You have friends here who would rather see a frown than a fake smile. The real ones are so much more beautiful anyway.”

                The comment had just _slipped out_ …

                And Loriel hadn’t missed it at _all_.

                Ulfric’s cheeks burned even as Loriel looked down, shaking his head as though in disbelief.

                It was awkward between them for heartbeats and breaths before Loriel spoke those final words.

                “Good night, Ulfric.”

                And all Ulfric could do was murmur his in response.

                He silently swore at himself all the way back to his room as well, grumbling and griping at the fumble even as he stripped down and crawled under the furs and blankets. And in the morning, he relived his embarrassment from the night before every instant he saw Loriel in passing as he took to his duties as a Jarl in full.

                A day, maybe two to make sure Eastmarch and his armed forces didn’t burn down in his absence. He would have two days, maybe longer with Loriel and he had called Loriel’s smile beautiful to his face.

                And Loriel didn’t seem to believe him.

                Beautiful.

                Everything about that Altmer was entirely that, and Loriel couldn’t see it for himself.

                One day, Ulfric prayed that he would.

                The Jarl noticed the difference that his request had had in Loriel though.

                He wasn’t smiling as much, but when he was smiling, Ulfric could tell it was _real_.

                But there were also the moments when their eyes met.

                Those moments where amber would meet sea blue and Loriel’s expression would soften and he would _smile_ in such a way that made Ulfric’s heart still itself for just a moment in his chest.

                Those smiles looked different than the ones Loriel gave Bat, and Ulfric knew that they were reserved just for him.

                And two days of those small, almost secret smiles made Ulfric feel peace like nothing else. Like Loriel was opening himself up just for him. And once all the politics that came with being Ulfric Stormcloak were handed enough to be handled by his Housecarl, Ulfric made arrangements for his horse to be readied in the morning and provisions for travel all prepared.

                And in the morning of that third day, Loriel met him in the Main Hall with one of his smiles, ready to face another adventure, all for Katria.

                An adventure for just the two of them.

                As Ulfric climbed onto the back of his horse and offered Loriel a hand to get up behind him, the Altmer’s arms settling about his waist as he took off, Ulfric remembered the path he would follow for the occasion. It would lead them through Kynesgrove and along the eastern side of the springs, far enough from Steamcrag Giant Camp to not attract the attention of the giants. The road was also going to be close enough to a good hotspring deposit to the south of the camp that they might be able to relax for a little bit, far enough from the road for a bit of privacy, and then they would be able to move on down the road, north of Cragslane Cavern and Snapleg Cave, west of his Stormcloak camp in the Rift, as well as the Dunmer farm that grew Nirnroot somehow by fluke.

                If they followed the road over the river, Ulfric knew they would soon find the Ruins of Bthalft, and therefore the Aetherium Forge.

                And as their rode, Ulfric was vaguely aware of the way Loriel held onto him, tucking his entire body against the Jarl’s back. He could barely feel it through his armor but he could tell Loriel was there.

                And once they were well past Kynesgrove, Ulfric slowed down and gazed over his shoulder at Loriel.

                “How would you feel about making a stop at the springs and relax some, maybe make an early lunch?” he offered.

                Loriel’s brows raised slightly.

                “You’re the driver, it’s up to you.”

                “It’s your adventure, I’m asking you.”

                The retort made a slight smile rise to Loriel’s lips.

                “Alright, fine. That sounds nice.”

                So it was settled.

                It was practically killing Ulfric to keep his horse at this pace as they made their way following the south road, a grove of tall trees where rumors of a witch living there loomed in the distance, and the smell of the giant’s fire told the Jarl when they were getting close.

                The giant was allowed to live there providing it didn’t cause any problems. How such a bargain managed to be forged though was beyond Ulfric’s understanding as they rode past, slowing even more as they neared the bend.

                And from there, Ulfric went off the road.

                The place was as timeless as he last remembered it being.

                The trees had grown some was all.

                It had been a long time.

                “Here’s the place,” he said, bringing his horse to a halt by the trees and he dismounted, offering a hand up to Loriel to help him down before he tied the reins to one of the trees. The horse would be able to chomp on grass growing among the roots if it pleased while its two passengers tended to themselves.

                “How did you come to know about this place?” Loriel inquired as he moved his pack to settle on a large bit of flat rock not far from the trees, a gathering of stones offering even more privacy.

                “There were times when I was receiving my tutoring as jarlson that my father and I would come down here. My lessons never ended, even when we were relaxing. He would quiz me on politics and policies while we swam. Those were fond times,” he admitted, putting his own pack down beside Loriel’s, their weapons neatly resting among their respected packs and he started to undo his armor.

                Loriel chuckled a bit and turned away, undoing his own, and for a time, there was only the sound of straps and belts, Ulfric stacking the metal of his armor as it came off.

                From the corner of his eye, he saw Loriel neatly folding the vest and settling it down, all before pulling off the jacket Ulfric once assumed would be sweltering followed by the undershirt. The moment those toned muscles came into view, Ulfric had to remind himself that there would be plenty of time to gawk later and he went about tending to his own.

                By the time Ulfric managed to pull everything off and was left in just his slacks, he heard splashing in the water and glanced over his shoulder to see Loriel’s back as he waded into the water, bare and golden and scarred, all lean and toned muscle packed into a frame that was undeniably smooth in its flow from ribs to waist to hips, all the way down those impossibly long legs. And there was no denying the deep hue of scarlet that had overtaken the gold of his skin from the tips of his ears all the way down to his shoulders.

                So it went down _that_ far, Ulfric couldn’t help thinking.

                He had to drag his eyes away before they could settle too long on Loriel’s shapely backside, one lingering scar following the curve of the muscle there. The sheer _knowledge_ that Loriel had those handsome divits where the muscles of his ass lead to his hips making Ulfric feel himself stiffen in his slacks with interest. He didn’t want to get caught staring.

                With that, he finished undressing and went to join the Altmer in the pleasantly hot water, sitting down on a rock ledge so the water settled up to his ribs, and observed Loriel as he slowly swam in the deeper areas.

                A heavy sigh and he allowed his arms to settle on the rock behind him, soaking in the sun and just letting the warmth of the water beat into his muscles in a way that the baths in Windhelm couldn’t manage. It was simply too cold in the palace for the water to stay hot for long.

                The sound of water and the feel of the movement made him crack open an eye so see Loriel lazily swimming over to come settle beside him on his rock ledge.

                “This is nice,” Loriel said softly, gathering his long, wet hair in his hand and twisting it up off of his neck, absently using a bit of the length to tie it back. Thank the Divines for the slight murk of the water otherwise Loriel might have been able to see just what Ulfric’s body thought of the view.

                “It is. The hot water certainly does the body some good.”

                The Mer hummed in agreement as he relaxed beside the Jarl.

                As he looked over, Ulfric couldn’t help but notice that Loriel was still blushing.

                And that it went nearly all the way down Loriel’s chest.

                And then his eyes met Loriel’s.

                Crap, he’d been caught.

                But those eyes didn’t seem to register what they had caught Ulfric doing, rather something else entirely as Loriel spoke.

                “I’m surprised we match quite a bit,” Loriel pointed out, casually motioning to the scars that were scattered across Ulfric’s broad, hairy chest.

                Some of them were the same. A few arrow wounds, a few slash scars from swords that got too close for comfort, marks of battles with animals, a couple burns from encounters with Destruction mages.

                And the electrical scar that crawled up the side of both of their torsos, Ulfric’s so minor in comparison to Loriel’s.

                His had been done for interrogation.

                Loriel’s had been inflicted for nothing more than pain and torture.

                But while the worst of Loriel’s scars were on his back and legs, most of Ulfric’s were focused on his front.

                “I suppose we do in some ways,” Ulfric agreed. “You look good though.”

                “Not as good as you. Divine’s save the poor woman who has the fortune of marrying you, she won’t be able to take her eyes off you for a second.”

                The statement made Ulfric’s brows raise, a flush rising to his cheeks as he looked at Loriel.

                “I am doubtful of that. An old man like me?”

                And Loriel rolled his eyes, “You’re 48, Ulfric, that’s hardly _old_. One would have to be deaf, dumb, and blind to think that your age makes you any less attractive. And besides, who isn’t a sucker for freckles?” Loriel stated before he pushed himself off of the rock ledge to swim off, leaving Ulfric to consider his words.

                And consider them he did.

                So Loriel had been _looking_.

                Most didn’t even notice his freckles, dusted modestly over his shoulders, chest, and back, yet there Loriel was, _noticing them_.

                He had to hide his mirth behind a hand as he watched the Altmer enjoy himself in the water.

                And the knowledge of Loriel, his bare body, and that little tidbit of information was pulsing in his head long after they left the springs.

                Loriel had been _looking_.

                Talos save him.


	33. Chapter Thirty-Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just FYI, this is also posted on my Fanfiction account too. Same name, same story. Enjoy. And don't forget to comment please.

                Shooting from the back of the horse, tall and proud, Loriel made short work of the bandits outside of the Ruins of Bthalft with his bow and a short handful of iron arrows. Most of the arrows were so weak that upon impact, they would shatter in the bodies of their targets which caused even more damage, falling their foes before they even had time to react.

                “You made it! And you brought the shards!” Katria said excitedly as they dismounted and Loriel approached while Ulfric settled his horse, smiling.

                “Well of course I did. I wouldn’t go through all that hard work just to bumble and leave them behind,” he stated, patting his bag where the shards were hidden away, wrapped individually in soft cloth for their protection, all before he approached the queer looking altar Katria had been standing by.

                Gazing at it curiously, he ran his fingers over the edges. “Neloth would have a field day with this creature,” he murmured softly.

                “The gear in the center looks about the right size for the shards,” Katria said, leaning against the device beside him as Ulfric joined them. “Try putting the shards in and… well, we’ll see what happens.”

                Loriel looked to both of them and flashed a small smile, almost eager. Excited. And he took out the shards, piecing them in one by one, and sliding them into place with neat little _click_ s, forming a perfectly round crest of Aetherium. But nothing happened, even as they waited a bit longer on baited breath.

                Nothing.

                Perhaps… Perhaps it needed something else.

                Some doors wouldn’t open unless the key was out of the lock.

                “Try taking it out?” Ulfric suggested.

                Picking at the edges with his fingernails, Loriel finally got a hold of the crest and was able to pull it out.

                All before the ground started rumbling.

                If Ulfric hadn’t tied his horse, he would have been fairly certain the beast would have bolted as the Jarl, the bard, and the Aetherium expert got away from the mechanism all before it started to raise from the ground, a huge tower exposing itself to them. And when the ground stopped shaking and the tower stopped rising, the entrance revealed itself to them.

                The mechanism had been nothing more than a lock, and this was the door they had been searching for.

                Just at Blackreach, it looked like a lift with the handle in the middle of the floor.

                Ready.

                Waiting.

                Loriel looked nervous.

                “Shall we?” Katria suggested.

                “I’m ready when you are,” Ulfric stated, putting a reassuring hand on the Mer’s shoulder.

                Swallowing down whatever nerves he had, Loriel nodded.

                “Let’s go,” he said very quietly.

                The three of them stepped into the chamber and Loriel pushed the handle, spurring the lift into motion.

                Sinking below the ground, they were welcomed by darkness of the earth that surrounded them, only brief interruptions of green-glowed Dwemer lights being a vague source of comfort as Katria gushed about what she knew about the forge. With the way things were, no one had been down there for maybe 4000 years, supposedly since the Dwemer disappeared if not before then if the Aetherium War was anything to scrutinize over.

                As she chattered on, Ulfric looked to where Loriel was, his skin looking sickly in the brief green light.

                He looked nervous.

                And wordlessly, Ulfric stepped to Loriel’s side, their arms brushing.

                Their hands brushing.

                Loriel’s hand was trembling.

                Feeling the way the Altmer’s hand jerked in surprise, Ulfric wondered if he shouldn’t have done that, but his fear was soothed when he felt contact.

                When he felt the simple way Loriel’s fingers searched for his.

                And their fingers meshed.

                Palm to palm, Loriel clutched him tight.

                And Ulfric smiled to himself as he felt Loriel’s shaking ease.

                The silence between them was like a secret, one that Ulfric would hold onto for the rest of his life.

                A long time ago, Loriel had told the Jarl that when he thought of safety, he thought of Ulfric.

                Ulfric hoped that he always would be that for him.

                “We must be really far down,” Katria stated in concern, “We’ve been going for a while.”

                “The most valuable things are always buried the deepest,” Loriel noted, his tone almost playful.

                “Saying that from personal experience?”

                “Maybe.”

                Ulfric couldn’t help but chuckle at the banter between the two friends but he also couldn’t help but _notice_ that they were slowing down.

                And then the lift came to a stop.

                There was a handle on the wall that Ulfric pulled and the gate in front of them automatically opened, as well as one of the braizers blooming to life, revealing the huge cavern beyond the lift, the sound of rushing water filling Ulfric’s ears as they stepped out.

                “Woah…”

                Ulfric let out a low, impressed whistle.

                It was Loriel who took the first steps forward and bravely lead the group down the path, the braizers lighting up along the way. They crossed two bridges, passed a small alter, and over the second bridge that made them climb stairs, that same structure as the one that was topside settled neatly at the first platform of stairs and they kept going.

                At the top of the stairs was a tree, dead and frozen in time, much like the rest of this place.

                The only signs of organic life in the place were two juniper trees.

                Loriel drew his bow from his back as they approached the building, gates closed and no sign of hostility but without hesitation, the Mer fired a shot at one resonator, sending it spinning, all before he hit the second one.

                The gate opened instantly.

                “What would I do without you,” Katria said proudly, patting the bard’s shoulder, grinning as they stepped into the building, Ulfric keeping to the rear to watch their back. He had a curious feeling about the place and already had the blessed shield and his axe in hand, just in case of any Dwemer constructs that dared pop out.

                Everything looked fully functional as they walked, lights coming on one-by-one, but there was something about the smell.

                The _heat_ of the place.

                “The air here…” Ulfric muttered as they came to a stop at a huge door.

                “It feels different,” Loriel agreed.

                “Almost like...”

                And they pushed the door open.

                “The Forge…”

                The chamber itself was filled with steam and felt of fire and heat and molten stone wept from the strange, huge construction before them, and even behind it seemed to be a lake of lava.

                It would be an immensely _stupid_ idea to touch anything in this room, least the metal or stone sear one’s skin clean off.

                “Mithnar, let’s clear the steam out… Those two valves should do the trick,” Katria pointed out, although it wasn’t like she could actually help.

                With one look shared between them, the two men went to opposing valves and turned them in unison, the mechanism squeaking until the wheel came to a stop and the steam stopped rising from the floor.

                If life was only so easy, that would have been the end of it, but it wasn’t as the familiar sound Ulfric heard in Raldbthar reached his ears.

                “ _Spiders_!” Katria shouted as the contraptions began to come out of the openings on walls, her bow drawn.

                “ _The stairs_!” Ulfric shouted as he turned back to them only to see them retracting into the wall, trapping them in the chamber.

                “ _Are you fucking kidding me_?!” Ulfric heard Loriel snarl, slashing and dodging even as more and more seemed to come, and somewhere along the way, spheres began to show themselves, one which Ulfric bashed with his shield, knocking it back so far with the blast that it fell into the lava and didn’t rise again.

                The three of them were capable though, and as Loriel kicked the last sphere back, Ulfric drove his ax into it mechanism with the sickening peel of metal on metal as he wretched his weapon free.

                And the sphere fell silent.

                “That was entirely too close,” Loriel groaned, rubbing his face. There was an open cut in the sleeve of his armor, exposing the raw wound from one of the spiders, blood dying his sleeve red. It was a lot of blood but nothing that wasn’t terribly serious. His arms no doubt were sore though, and Ulfric personally felt exhausted, both from the day and from the fight, and the uneasy feeling in his gut only grew stronger with the sudden sound that came from the lava, a noise that made the three of them turn to slowly look.

                And horror overtook them as the largest Centurion Ulfric had yet to see climbed from the molten lake, breathing out a gout of flames at them.

                Shield in front of him, Ulfric took the worst of the flames all before the air dropped a bit and he looked back, Loriel standing feet behind a conjured Frost Atronach that rushed forward to attack the creation of metal and fire.

                While the centurion, the Forgemaster Ulfric wanted to call it, was distracted by the Atronach, Ulfric took to attacking it where it wasn’t looking, burying his axe in the heat-softened metal while spectral arrows slammed into it as well, an ice spike soon finding its way into the metal before Loriel shouted at Ulfric to get back, moments before the Atronach exploded.

                Shards of ice frosted in the air and melted, and the Centurion was staggered by the blast, turning towards Ulfric before its mechanism caught and started to stutter.

                For a moment, the construct just stood there, jerking and twitching slightly before it finally stopped and slumped, collapsing to the ground.

                All that metal had finally had enough.

                And they were no worse for wear.

                Loriel hurried over to Ulfric, “Are you okay?” he immediately asked as he reached him.

                “I’m fine. Your arm though,” he pointed out.

                “I took a potion, don’t worry,” the Altmer assured him, and Ulfric saw the broken glass of the bottle to know it was true.

                He had used the Atronach to give himself an opportunity to drink it.

                To save all of them really.

                “Is it really over?” Ulfric asked, turning back to look at the Forge and the Forgemaster.

                “I think so…”

                Katria was excited.

                “I almost can’t believe it. We did it! We actually did it!” she cheered, reaching them and she threw her arms around Loriel, surprising the Altmer with the hug. She was corporal enough to manage the contact.

                Interesting, considering she couldn’t pick up anything.

                But there were many things Ulfric didn’t understand, the capabilities of ghosts being one of them.

                Letting go of Loriel, she looked back to the Forge, “There’s only one thing left to do now,” she told them, “We have to prove this actually works, that this is the _real_ Aetherium Forge.”

                Looking to Ulfric, Loriel gave him a smile before he joined Katria in approaching the Forge, Ulfric at his side, and with ease, Loriel slipped the Aetherium Crest into the mechanism. There were other things they needed to make anything though.

                And within minutes, Loriel and Ulfric came back with various materials from the alcoves, ingots of silver, gold, ebony, and Dwarven metal, malachite, flawless rubies and sapphires. Whatever the Dwemer had intended to make last time obviously had been delayed because the trio were lucky.

                With the materials, soon the Forge created something magnificent.

                Loriel made it create something amazing.

                A Circlet.

                An Aetherial Crown.

                Katria breathed out in relief. “It’s beautiful.”

                And Loriel smiled to the ghost.

                “And it’s yours,” he told her, turning to her. “This is all because of you. Your dedication to all of this made this happen.”

                She shook her head. “I wouldn’t have got here without you. You made this happen. Both of you. No one could possibly deny what we’ve found today,” she said with a grin, her voice like a promise.

                Soft.

                Softer than it had been before.

                Loriel had noticed as well as Ulfric did that Katria was fading.

                “Take that out into the world,” she requested of them, “and if anyone asks, tell them what we discovered. Together. And now… I think I can finally rest.”

                Loriel bit his lip before he told her, “Sleep well.”

                His voice was cracking.

                “The heroes of Sovngarde will revel in your tales of bravery,” Ulfric told her, making the long dead woman beam at him.

                “Farewell, my friends. Wherever your travels take you.”

                With her final words, she bowed.

                And then disappeared from their world.

                All that was left of Katria was the memories they had made.

                And a crown of Aetherium settled in the long, slim hands of an Altmer bard.

                His gaze flicked over to the other who stood with his head bowed, slowly turning over the circlet in his fingers.

                Ulfric couldn’t help but think that Loriel looked… Almost lost.

                And he placed a hand over one of those hands.

                “Are you okay?”

                Loriel looked up from the crown, lips pressed thin and brows pinched. “I never… _thought_ about what would happen after I completed Katria’s quest,” he admitted, his voice still on edge with the weight of the loss. “I knew that she would go but…”

                “It feels too sudden?” Ulfric suggested after a moment of silence while the bard tried to find words.

                Loriel nodded.

                And the Jarl squeezed the Altmer’s hand.

                There really weren’t any words that he could tell Loriel to comfort him. He had just lost a friend after years of working on this quest with her, and now it was just… Over. Done. There was nothing left. All that remained was a crown.

                After several long moments, Loriel covered Ulfric’s hand with his own and gave it a squeeze, drawing a deep breath before looking the shorter man in the face and he asked, “Should we make camp? It’s getting late.”

                The sun had been setting when they had stepped into the ruins, so honestly it sounded like a good idea.

                “We can leave in the morning when we’re fresh,” Ulfric agreed.

                A small, grateful smile reached Loriel’s lips.

                “Let’s get out of here.”

                Outside the ruins, the aurora glowed dimly in hues of oranges, yellows, and greens, the colors of the warrior signs that were so strangely different than the ones that typically occupied the headspace over Windhelm. Only in rare occurrences were the colors of the mage _not_ present over the city. But one could be certain, Eastmarch was the blue hold, and its aurora shown much more handsomely than the one that ribboned through the sky above the Altmer and the Nord.

                With the bandit camp being so close to the Imperial Camp of the Rift, the two of them took the horse and eventually settled themselves further up the rock face from the camp where the horse could be tied and they could have the advantage of higher ground to know if enemies were coming.

                The silence between them felt uncomfortable as Ulfric chewed on his bit of ration and Loriel used the light from the aurora and the moons to guide him as he whittled at a bit of wood he had taken from the bandit’s stack of firewood. The Altmer wasn’t in the mood for talk and it had been enough to make sure that he actually partook in food.

                It was concerning.

                How long had Loriel been suffering through this episode of heartsickness?

                How severe would be the worst moment and when would it be?

                Ulfric could recall how tired Loriel had been looking for the last few weeks, and how awkward he had been with his food as for almost a month now. Had it really been that long?

                “How can I help you?” Ulfric asked, his voice soft in the breeze, making the Mer look up from his project in surprise.

                For a moment, Loriel didn’t seem to know what to think, and he looked down, frowning a bit and then biting his lip as he thought. Ulfric watched the way he fiddled with the knife in his hand, and without any word, Ulfric got up from his spot and moved Loriel’s pack out of the way so he could sit down beside him.

                Shoulder to shoulder, Ulfric wanted Loriel to be aware of the contact, “I’m not letting you go through this alone, I hope you know. I want to know what I can do to help but you haven’t told me anything,” the Jarl said, his tone mildly scolding.

                Loriel mildly smiled and shook his head, putting down his project. “I guess I didn’t feel like I needed to.”

                The statement made Ulfric frown. “Why?”

                And their eyes met, warm amber to cool blue.

                “Because you already do it without my asking to.” He said very softly.

                Ulfric felt the very light, hesitant touch of Loriel’s fingers over the back of his hand and so he turned his palm up, offering the Altmer the opportunity to quietly mesh their fingers together and he did.

                Loriel’s smile was real, he could tell now. And he could relax. The way that they were now was more than enough.

                However little the contact, this was still helping.

                And together, they watched the aurora as it swam above the Ruins of Bthalft.


	34. Chapter Thirty-Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just FYI, this is also posted on my Fanfiction account too. Same name, same story. Enjoy. And don't forget to comment please.

I will tell you first and foremost that I blatantly hate this chapter. This is like the transition chapter of all transition chapters for me and I just couldn’t write it the way that my brain wanted. Nothing wants to flow. So have a jerky chapter so we can move on because frankly I’m so totally done. 

* * *

                There was nothing that could have prepared him for that look that Loriel gave him in the aftermath of the battle.

                The fear, the pain, the sadness.

                That looked meant more to him than all the other things that were whirling around in his head as well.

                That look.

                He never wanted Loriel to look at him like that ever again.

                Never again.

                The dragon’s ambush meant nothing to him, creeping up on them in the dead of the night with their minds waking from dreams by the windfalls of its wings. They had reacted immediately to the fight that came like a thunder storm, and Ulfric’s hands shook from the grip on the shield he had been gifted with, axe in hand.

                And Loriel just looked back.

                With tears in his eyes.

                And then it finally took.

                Adrenaline shook through Ulfric in the aftermath as Loriel turned away from him at the same moment the breath caught in the Altmer’s throat.

                The soul reached for him as it body crumbled in with hues of gold and red dancing on the edges of the wind like blades, like fire, and wrapped around him before settling down to shimmer and simmer and soak, leaving only Loriel where he stood and a skeleton with its hord.

                Dragonborn.

                He should have realized it before.

                There were so many hints.

                And he was too blind with love to see.

                But all that mattered right now was that expression.

                The moment that Loriel collapsed in on himself was the moment that Ulfric dropped everything.

                “ _Don’t touch me!_ ”

                It was like a slap in the face, he had to admit.

                The last time Ulfric had seen Arson take down a dragon and had reached out to comfort him, he had said the same thing. A warning. But this time it was different.

                This time, it was bare.

                This time it was obvious who he was reaching out to.

                And this time, Loriel couldn’t hide.

                Where wrath had been in Arson’s voice last time, this time it was agony.

                And where Ulfric had once stepped back out of fear of that wrath, this time he did not.

                Everything made sense in the nanoseconds that it took to connect all the dots and overlaps and all that mattered was this one thing.

                That Loriel was afraid.

                Ulfric did not let Loriel retreat like he knew the elf wanted to, he did not let him jerk back, not when the tears that ran down his face were worth more to him than all of Skyrim as he wrapped his arms around the man that he loved who was suddenly stripped bare of his secrets for Ulfric to see.

                Loriel quaked in his arms, his voice cracking as he sobbed, broken and exposed.

                This was Loriel.

                Raw.

                And now he knew.

                Before the dawn of that summer’s day, Ulfric knew that the only thing that could ever hurt him so thoroughly was when Loriel was hurt by himself.

                By secrets that were ripped open from his closely-guarded chest like a rapist might violate his prey.

                Loriel wasn’t given a chance to delicately ease into the situation, to tell the truth at his own pace, if he ever did. He wasn’t given the opportunity to not have an episode come full-force in the light of the reveal. He wasn’t allowed a moment to prepare for any of it.

                But Ulfric held him close and understood.

                And said nothing.

                Nothing needed to be said.

                And so he just let Loriel cry.

                And loved him all the more.


	35. Chapter Thirty-Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just FYI, this is also posted on my Fanfiction account too. Same name, same story. Enjoy. And don't forget to comment please.

                It pained Ulfric to pull away but he knew that eventually he would have to, whether Loriel was ready for him to or not. They had to go. Return to Windhelm. Where he could make sure Loriel was properly taken care of. He couldn’t do that here.

                He knew that well enough.

                And as he reluctantly pulled back, he felt the slack grip the Altmer had on the edge of his chainmail go taunt, a hitch in his breath out of fear, and Ulfric crooned softly, “easy. I’m not leaving you.”

                It was gentle assurance that did nothing to sedate the anxiety in the other, and as their eyes met, Ulfric took in the mess that Loriel was, with his puffy, bloodshot eyes, his ash and blood and dirt-covered skin streaked by tears, saliva, and snot that had long since dried to his face.

                On any other person, it would have been an ugly look but Ulfric would take Loriel in every way that he came: beautiful, common, disguised, ruined, ugly.

                Because it was all Loriel.

                It was all _him_.

                This was the mess that he was in love with.

                And the Jarl reached up to gently cup the edges of Loriel’s jaw, his fingertips smearing the tracks as he stroked his cheeks with his thumbs, slowly going back and forth, feeling the other tremble under the contact.

                “We’re going home,” Ulfric promised him quietly, “I’m going to take care of you.”

                And that was what he did.

                He weathered through Loriel’s silence fueled by anxiety and sadness, making sure that the other always felt the pressure of himself against him, a physical form of a wordless _I’m here for you_ , even as he gathered their packs and their weapons and shouldered them all. He held Loriel’s hand as he lead the other to the Rift Stormcloak camp, ignoring all odd looks the pair of them received by the soldiers as he spoke to the captain he had stationed there. He stole bare moments while the men prepared a horse for Ulfric and Loriel to take back to Windhelm to wash Loriel’s face clean and listen to every irritable honk of his nose when he blew it, resting his forehead against the Altmer’s when he began to weep again. He kept his arms wrapped around Loriel the entire ride back to the capitol of his hold, the other sitting in front with Ulfric’s chin on his shoulder. And when they finally arrived, the Jarl lead the other through the city with his hand settled on his waist, keeping him close.

                _I’m here for you_.

                That was his promise.

                Laronen had been the first to greet them in the Palace, excitement on his face that dwindled as soon as he saw the look on Loriel’s, and instead of demanding to know what happened, he simply retreated, immediately going to get whatever it was he felt like he needed to help his heartsick brother defend himself against his own Legionaries’ disease. A bath was drawn and for the first time since he had taken Loriel into his arms after the defeat of the dragon, he parted from the Altmer, allowing the healer to take over for the time being.

                Ulfric knew he needed all the help he could get. As much as he wanted to turn all his attention to Loriel, to take care of him entirely now that they were back at Windhelm, safe and secure, he had a job to do. But here he also had at least two people he could trust with this man.

                When Bat finally showed up, Ulfric put aside his work in order to give him the rundown of what had happened.

                To let him know that his best friend needed him.

                That _he_ needed his help in taking care of Loriel.

                And then, just like Laronen, Bat left to take care of Loriel.

                And left Ulfric to the demands of his position.

                His country, his hold, his city, his people, they needed his attention, even if he wished he was far away from that desk, in that bedroom in the north wing where a guitar, a cat, an Orc, and two Altmers presently were.

                That was where his attention wanted to be.

                But he couldn’t do that.

                No matter how much he wished he could set aside his responsibilities.

                Perhaps someday.

                It was late evening by the time he finished his work, completing tasks and granting orders that Galmar could not give, and Ulfric instinctively came to Loriel’s door. He didn’t even remember knocking before he stepped inside. He just let himself in.

                He just wanted to see Loriel.

                Half of him had hoped that Loriel would be asleep.

                Resting.

                Recovering.

                Part of him was glad to see that he was wrong.

                But part of him wished he hadn’t seen the way Loriel looked away in wounded reluctance as soon as their eyes met. Part of him wished that the sight didn’t make his chest ache.

                Laronen glanced between his brother and his Jarl before the healer rose to his feet.

                “We can finish talking about this tomorrow. Okay? Get some sleep.”

                “Don’t let me interrupt,” Ulfric stated.

                “No, it’s fine. He wants to talk to you anyway,” Laronen excused himself, the tone of finality in his voice leaving little room for argument as he made his way past the Jarl and out, closing the door behind him.

                Leaving Ulfric and Loriel alone together.

                For a time, all Ulfric could do was stand there, looking at Loriel, watching him keep his eyes diverted from his, his head down, an absent hand squeezing his elbow. There was a slight tremble in his shoulders. His guard was up.

                And for all the time he had to think about Loriel, he understood why.

                He knew part of the reason why.

                Not all, but part of it.

                And he crossed the room wordlessly, not too fast, he didn’t want to alarm the Mer, but not too slow either.

                He didn’t have the patience to go slowly.

                And he sank into the chair that Laronen had been sitting in, facing Loriel from his position on the edge of the bed.

                Loriel didn’t move.

                And it hurt that he knew it was because Loriel was scared.

                Of him.

                Of what he would say.

                He was scared that this would be a repeat, however delayed.

                And Ulfric wanted more than anything in all of Nirn to prove him wrong.

                That would never happen again.

                A heavy breath expanded in his chest and he slowly allowed it back out. His palms were sweating and his own nervousness irritated him as he wiped his hands on his pantlegs.

                It was Loriel who spoke first.

                “Laronen’s getting married.”

                It was the first thing that came out of his mouth, but not the last.

                “He proposed to Nilsine. While we were away. He’s excited. He really loves her. He wants to invite Lermion to the wedding. He’s living in Solitude now. With his wife. They have four children you know. One of them is already eighteen. I didn’t know I had nieces and a nephew until a couple months ago. I can’t believe I didn’t know I was an uncle,” Loriel anxiously rambled, fidgeting where he sat.

                His fingers picked at the hem of his shirt, and his feet shifted every few seconds, his chest heaving with every breath. He hesitated every couple sentences, his thoughts an unorganized mess, touching on everything he could think of except whatever it was he really wanted to talk about. But the longer he went on, it became plain to see that Loriel was starting to work himself into a panic attack as he tried in vain to skirt around one very big topic.

                He didn’t need to.

                “Loriel.”

                His hands were white-knuckled and trembling as he clutched his sleeves, trying to ground himself but failing.

                And he reached out, his large hands covering those long ones.

                The contact made Loriel’s eyes snap up, meeting his for the first time in almost a day.

                And he stroked his thumbs over Loriel’s biceps through his shirt.

                “Take a breath,” he said softly, “slowly.”

                At first, Loriel didn’t seem to know what to think. And then, he drew a breath, nice and slow, and Ulfric breathed with him. Deep and soothing.

                The first breath shook in Loriel’s chest, the second one less so. The third was even calmer.

                By the tenth, Loriel was no longer trembling.

                He looked better.

                The Jarl felt a smile crease his lips faintly, a little less worry on both of their hearts.

                Ulfric cradled the elf’s jaw and cheek in one hand, the thin, discolored slash along the side of Loriel’s throat just barely visible, the coarse hairs of a slowly growing beard strange yet familiar against his palm.

                And Loriel leaned into the touch.

                It was not the first time Ulfric had held his face like this.

                The first time had been that day so long ago when Ralof had brought Loriel home, feverish, burned, branded, lashed and nearly broken. His retreat to delusion had only been halted by his own brother who grounded him. Ulfric would never forget the way that his heart broke when the first tear dripped over his fingers. _Talos_ , he had been so starved for any form of contact that wasn’t abuse.

                Never again.

                “Tell me what you need,” Ulfric gently requested.

                And Loriel closed his eyes, brows pinching slightly as his fingers came up to the Nord’s wrist, hesitating under the sensation of the twisted metal bracelet before there was comfort as he covered Ulfric’s hand with his own.

                “Stay. Please stay.”

                The words practically begged.

                Fear.

                That he would leave.

                But he wouldn’t.

                “I’m here.”

                Loriel bowed his head, fingers clutching Ulfric’s hand with a grateful squeeze.

                They sat there for a long time in silence, the Man’s thumb tracing slowly over Loriel’s cheek, occasionally feeling a slight tremble roll through the Mer’s chest.

                It was late and Baby reminded them of this with a sleepy meow and a big stretch before the tom cat padded over to them and nudged his head against Loriel’s arm.

                They needed sleep.

                Loriel needed sleep.

                He looked so tired, more tired than Ulfric felt.

                “You need rest.”

                “Please stay,” he asked, his voice suddenly on the edge of panic again.

                “I’m not leaving you.”

                Ulfric had to reassure him several times during the time it took to get Loriel to finally settle down in his bed that he wouldn’t leave, that he would still be there when he woke up, and Loriel only calmed when Ulfric was laying down beside him. The elf’s legs were curled up, pulling himself tight into a ball at Ulfric’s side, the Jarl laying on his back with an arm slipped around Loriel’s shoulder, the Mer’s head settled against his bicep and fingertips tight on his sleeve.

                A million words hung in the air in front of the man and yet he could say nothing. None of it _felt_ right as he listened to Loriel’s anxious breaths, not slow enough for sleep, not with the way he twitched under certain thoughts that crossed his mind. He could have picked from any of a hundred different starts just to fill the air and… it still would feel like it wasn’t the right one.

                And as he lounged there in thought with the only person he wanted at his side laying there in internal torment, Ulfric gazed out the window with the shimmers of a Windhelm-colored aurora gleaming in.

                If he hadn’t felt Loriel’s deep inhale, Ulfric would have missed the first part of what the Altmer said, his thoughts so otherwise distracted.

                “I wanted to tell you. That’s why I ran after you.”

                It took a moment for Ulfric to realize that he was talking about after the peace conference. At the foot of the Throat of the World.

                He opened his mouth to speak but Loriel was already talking. “I was going to tell you the truth. That I was the Dragonborn. I was going to thank you for being my friend. I kept telling myself all the way down the mountain that I would be satisfied with the idea of dying for this world after I told you.”

                Satisfied with the idea…

                Ulfric already knew that Loriel had been in a spiral of heartsickness before the peace conference. But to know that he had been so depressed that he had been alright with the thought of dying… Of not coming back…

                He felt his grip tighten around Loriel’s shoulder with fear.

                _Talos_ , how many times had he nearly lost Loriel for good?

                “I should have listened,” he whispered hoarsely, his voice tight with fear at the thought.

                “I don’t know what I expected. I should have known my mother would have made some sort of comment to you as soon as she could, as soon as she found out that I was spending my time in Windhelm. I should have… I should have tried anyway. Even with you scared and mad at me. But… what you said… She always knew the simplest ways to knock the wind out of me.”

                There was a small, forced laugh on the edge of those brittle words, shaky with rising anxiety as he told the truth.

                “Auri-El smite me, you even went out of your way to have me rescued after everything I hid from you and I still couldn’t just fucking _tell you_. I couldn’t quit _lying_ like a fucking _coward_ even though you gave me every reason to tell you-”

                “I gave you so many reasons not to, though. After how I treated you—after I tore your safety right out from beneath your feet… You were protecting yourself and I was trying to protect myself and I was-” _And I was in love with you_ … Ulfric shook his head at the thought that nearly slipped out, “We were both scared. I should have heard you out the first time.”

                Ulfric hated himself for that moment of weakness he had shown nearly a year ago.

                That moment of weakness there at the edge of the Rift and Eastmarch would forever be his biggest regret.

                Silence spread between the two with a tremble in Loriel’s shoulders and a tightness in his own chest.

                Thoughts ran rampant in his mind. All those times after he had Loriel rescued, all those times when the bard told him bits and pieces of truth while hiding in plain sight, no longer living a double life but still scared to share all his fears, all his realities, still wanting to be known while still sheltering himself. Telling his truths as Arson’s truths made it easier for Loriel to come out of his shell, gradually. All the times Loriel told the truth about Arson, about himself, and cried. Fear. He had been so scared.

                He wanted to tell the truth.

                But so much of Loriel’s life had been spent in hiding.

                So he made the best effort that he could to give Ulfric the truth.

                Because he was his friend.

                Because that’s what he thought Ulfric deserved.

                The best truth that he could give.

                To someone who was just a friend.

                And Ulfric had been infatuated with him.

                Loriel sniffed wetly, and for a long moment, Ulfric could think of nothing to say.

                So he said nothing.

                He shifted his arm around Loriel and rolled onto his side, his arms slipping about the Altmer’s waist and he hid his face against Loriel’s shoulder, ignoring the way the elf stiffened in his grasp, perhaps surprised by the suddenness of it all.

                “I don’t care. I could have never found out the truth about you being Arson and I still wouldn’t care. As long as you came _back_. If I had lost you for good… Talos, the mistakes I made, pushing you away like that…”

                He didn’t want to think about it but now it was all he could think of.

                None of this would have happened if he had just _listened_.

                Loriel would have told him the truth and Ulfric liked to think that he would have made Loriel promise to come back as quickly as he could.

                He liked to think that as soon as Loriel came back from defeating Alduin that Loriel would have made a beeline straight for Windhelm, that he would have asked Loriel for stories, for truths and realities and that Loriel would have never felt the need to hide from him ever again.

                That so much of Loriel’s pain from heartsickness could have been avoided if he had just listened.

                That Loriel never would have been on the receiving end of the whip, or suffered from fever, or had his throat slit open by Thalmor, that he would not have needed to be rescued, that he would not have spent months recovering from the worst of the trauma.

                All of Loriel’s suffering would have been spared if he had just _listened_.

                After a long time of silence, he felt Loriel’s jaw shift.

                “I would have come back anyway.”

                That made Ulfric’s eyes open in surprise.

                “Why?”

                He could almost hear the small laugh in his voice.

                “Because I’m subborn.”

                And Loriel shifted in his arms, turning his shoulders so he could look back to Ulfric, and Ulfric loosened his grasp so that he could.

                “After the Greybeards set the pyre, I got to thinking about what to do. Where I would go. You told me not to come back to Windhelm after all. But everything I loved was here. So I told myself I’d go back. Even if it was just to get my things. Because if I came back, at least it meant I would get to see you one last time.”

                Ulfric felt his heart in his throat, his eyes searching Loriel’s sad ones.

                “Even if you hated me, I could never be mad at you for being scared.”

                Oh Talos…

                A bitter sense of shame settled in his chest.

                For a while, he had. Hated him. He felt spiteful and betrayed. And then, the more he reminisced over the loss of Loriel, the more he wanted to talk to someone about him. And Arson had been the one person he had wanted to talk to about it all. But Arson was gone. And the longer he thought about Loriel, the more he realized his mistake. The more he wanted Loriel back.

                Divines, if Loriel had come back, Ulfric would have easily uprooted his decision.

                He would have made it up to him immediately.

                They would have…

                But things that were intended to happen didn’t always happen.

                Loriel was going to come back whether Ulfric had wanted him to or not, but the Thalmor caught him before he had a chance.

                And here they were, nearly a year later, having this conversation.

                All because of the Thalmor.

                Funny how it all came down to those bastards.

                “I never was very good at holding grudges against you, bard,” he managed a smile.

                And Loriel’s cheeks dimpled as he smiled back, relieved.

                “I’m glad.”

                It was an awkward sort of peace, a gentler kind of happiness as the two of them curled up together, allowing themselves to finally rest some in the quiet of the room. Ulfric’s mind was still wandering from the conversation, too keyed up with fear and excitement and sadness and joy all at once to really be able to fall asleep, not with Loriel in his arms.

                Occasionally though, Ulfric managed to doze, but the spots of rest were frequently interrupted with Loriel jerking in his sleep, nightmares plaguing him. Sometimes all it took to chase them away was to tighten his arms a little around the Altmer and hold him close and secure and he would calm for a while.

                Other times, Ulfric got to experience how Laronen cared for his brother when he first came back, roused from his sleep by Loriel crying out in his.

                Sometimes, he screamed.

                And Ulfric would wake Loriel, help him breathe through his anxiety, have him drink water, and try to get him to rest a little more.

                It made for a long night, but Ulfric wouldn’t have exchanged it for all of Nirn.

                “You look like shit,” Galmar commented when the Jarl finally came down for breakfast after Bat had arrived to replace his presence with Loriel.

                “It was well worth it,” Ulfric stated flatly, feeling relatively pleased with himself as he sat down and began to eat.

                His housecarl lofted a brow at him curiously, “made some sort of progress with the elf?” he asked cautiously.

                The Jarl could only wordlessly smile into his breakfast.

                Galmar smirked and shook his head, gave his lord’s shoulder a squeeze and went to grab the reports for the day so that the two of them could discuss them in the war room, a small sense of normal returning to Ulfric.

                He finally saw Laronen slightly before breakfast, the healer entering the war room to go up to the north wing, no doubt to visit his brother when Ulfric called to him.

                “There is something I want to discuss with you,” Ulfric told him, and the Mer slowly turned back to him from the door.

                “Of course. What can I do for you?”

                He motioned to an available chair for Laronen to sit in and he slowly sank into it, looking a little worried and Ulfric offered a small smile to ease his nerves.

                “Your brother mentioned that you proposed. I wanted to give you my congratulations.”

                A nervous breath escaped him to relief, along with a shy smile. “Thank you. I didn’t expect her to say yes.”

                “You doubt yourself too much. I would have been more surprised if she said no,” Ulfric chuckled, “how soon are you hoping to have it?”

                “We haven’t discussed a date. I was hoping to send word to my brother, Lermion, so that he might be able to attend,” Laronen admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. “I thought it would be nice for the three of us to be together again, to celebrate.”

                “I would agree. He is in Solitude, correct?”

                “Yes.”

                “Do you need help getting a letter to him?”

                “I was going to talk to Loriel about having one of his contacts do it.”

                Ulfric nodded. Now that he knew about Loriel being Arson, he had a better understanding of the web of contacts he had at his fingertips, and there were those friends he had made long before then, especially if Loriel’s friends in Riften were who he thought they were.

                “Speaking of contacts, this came from Solstheim,” Laronen added, adjusting his coat to pull out thick envelope and gave it to Ulfric.

                It was addressed to one of Loriel’s aliases, from Lleril Morvayn of House Redoran.

                And as he opened it and read the pages, his brows rose in surprise. These were the final letters of alliance that they needed. All the people Loriel and Laronen had written to were willing to band together against the Aldmeri Dominion, against the Thalmor.

                That meant that now was the time to get back in touch with Balgruuf.

                To let him know that his idea was more than underway, that all of this could actually work.

                It would not be too long before they would need to approach Tullius and convince him and the Emperor to meet the rest of the alliance, so they could finally put an end to this threat.

                The end was in sight. This war had the potential to reach an end at long last.

                That a chance for peace was on the horizon.


	36. Chapter Thirty-Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just FYI, this is also posted on my Fanfiction account too. Same name, same story. Enjoy. And don't forget to comment please.

                Loriel’s days were calm with barely concealed brittle edges, every word that he said was carefully considered with measured smiles. He hid his pain and anxiety so well that if Ulfric hadn’t been looking hard, hadn’t _known_ better, he would have failed to notice at all.

                It was the nights that were another matter entirely.

                He couldn’t hide from his terrors, he had no capability to lucidly dream to escape.

                Ulfric eventually stopped keeping track of how many times he woke to Loriel’s screaming and thrashing in the days that followed. How many times he woke Loriel and held him, coached his breathing to be calm, and talked to him, sometimes just absent chatter about his day, sometimes he told stories that he knew until the Altmer fell back to sleep. He didn’t even mind the penalty it took on his own quality of rest, as long as he got to see the elf finding some form of peace.

                Galmar teased him about it for all he was worth but he could tell that Ulfric was happier to be able to do something to help the Altmer, even if he hadn’t made his affections yet known.

                While much of Ulfric’s day was spent lending his attention to his duties, Loriel frequently came to spend time with him, occasionally with Bat, sometimes with Laronen, and the Jarl relished the thought that Loriel was seeking him out for comfort that he couldn’t find in his brother or his friend.

                Their touches during the day were always brief, hesitant for the public exposure, casual and friendly, but Ulfric never imagined being able to hold Loriel night after night, his only form of security in his darkest hours.

                It was more than he could have ever hoped for.

                And in the sleepy moments when Loriel would crawl into his arms at the end of the day, exhausted from maintaining his disguise, Loriel would tell him the truth.

                There was so much truth to be told.

                He told Ulfric the story of what happened after Helgen. He explained to him everything Ralof had told him when he had returned of the two of them making it to Riverwood before the Altmer headed north to Whiterun in order to spread the news of the dragon, but it was interesting to hear what happened beyond that. He had not expected Balgruuf himself to play such a big role in the Dragonborn’s start, having him go hunting through the ruins of Bleakfalls Barrow for his wizard in order to find an old stone tablet that was actually a map of dragon mounds and how not long after, Loriel ended up facing off against his first dragon, _fighting_ his first dragon.

                While stories of the encounter that he had heard said that the credit to slaying the dragon was the Dragonborn’s, Loriel admitted that it had not been he who had laid the final blow, but the Jarl of Whiterun’s own housecarl who had slashed the beast’s throat open while Loriel had been focusing his efforts on the wings and tail. There was wisdom in grounding a dragon first, which made them infinitely easier to handle.

                Upon learning what he was, Loriel made Balgruuf _swear_ to secrecy, that everyone who had witnessed the fight, had seen who he was, what he was capable of, was sworn to secrecy as well. All that knew the identity of Arson was Balgruuf, his housecarl, his steward, his brother, a short handful of palace staff, and six or seven Whiterun guards.

                One of those guards was a Stormcloak sympathizer who had eventually been captured by the Thalmor to be tortured for whatever he knew despite not truly being one of Ulfric’s army. That man had also been rescued from Northwatch Keep with Loriel, and was now one of Ulfric’s soldiers, Thorald Grey-Mane.

                The man Loriel had been arguing with weeks ago, the very same man Loriel told to write a letter to his mother, that he would make sure she got it.

                It was also strange to learn just how close part of Loriel’s web of contacts had been to him at all times. All Ulfric would have had to do in order to get in touch with Loriel as he was traveling as Arson would have been to walk down to his very own marketplace and speak to the Altmer woman who was a merchant of general goods and also owned a house not far from the Snow Quarter. She was the one who got everything in and out of Windhelm for Loriel. She was the one who Loriel gave the letters to be smuggled out to Solstheim for the alliance.

                And she was the one who Loriel gave the two letters to be smuggled out to Whiterun and Solitude.

                Everything could have been so easy if only he had known that _before_.

                But there was no use in sulking on the fact that it hadn’t.

                Not when there was important business for them to handle as Ulfric dismounted from his horse just outside Guldun Rock Cave. He was flanked by Yrsarald and Galmar, and as one of Balgruuf’s guards readily took the reins for the beasts, Ulfric watched from the corner of his eye as Laronen held his own horse still so Loriel could get off, the two elves having rode together.

                Some of Balgruuf’s guards were startled to see the Jarl of Windhelm in the peaceful company of not one but two Altmer, but there was one or two who were more flabbergast at the presence of Loriel.

                Those were the ones that knew his identity.

                And the fact that he was an ally to Ulfric…

                Well, Jarl Stormcloak felt a little pleased with himself to have Loriel as an ally as well.

                Balgruuf and his more immediate company were less surprised by Loriel’s presence. If anything could be read on their faces, it was relief to finally see him in person again.

                Alive.

                “Jarl Ulfric,” Balgruuf greeted before his gaze settled on Loriel, “it is good to see you well, friend.”

                Loriel granted him a small, tired smile, “likewise, sir.”

                He shook his head, “always so formal,” he sighed before turning his attention to Laronen, “and you must be his mentioned twin.”

                “Triplets,” Loriel sarcastically piped in, and Ulfric felt a smile curl on his lips in humor as he saw Balgruuf smirk as well.

                It had been said all for the sake of luring out Loriel’s more casual snarkiness, allowing the Altmer to relax, and even Laronen chuckled in the simplicity.

                Galmar and Yrsarald both glanced at each other, for once not in the loop of what might have been akin to an inside joke, and after a moment, the two parties arranged themselves to tend to important matters.

                “- and with the confirmations of alliance, now all that is left is to convince the Imperials to join. This will be no small task though,” Balgruuf sighed.

                “With the boarders being watched by Imperials and the Thalmor, there is no way we will be able to even get a note to the Emperor, even with the contacts that I have on the inside. The only letters leaving or entering Skyrim that are not inspected are to and from Tullius,” Laronen noted, “the chances of him agreeing to meet with us at all, let alone _alone_ , are slim to none: Elenwen would be breathing down his neck the moment she heard anything about him going off to meet someone.”

                Ulfric glanced to the Altmer who had been remaining quiet since everything really had settled down for talk. He had remained standing near the entrance, like a simple lesser noble in a meeting where only the Jarls were to speak. Potentially, he felt out of his element since this really was the first major meeting that he had attended since the peace council.

                “Loriel, what are your thoughts?” the Jarl asked.

                The voice of the Summerset Isle rebel, son of the Thalmor Ambassador, and the savior of Skyrim was invaluable.

                And he glanced up, his amber eyes nearly glowing like candlelight in the poor lighting of the cave.

                For a moment, all he managed was to shift his posture and let out a slow, nervous breath.

                “I… It will take some time… And I don’t imagine he’ll be too happy about it. But I can get Tullius to a meeting. Alone.”

                It seemed that the Altmer had a plan, however vague, and Galmar frowned openly at him.

                “So you’re not going to tell us?” he demanded.

                “It’s complicated,” he responded.

                “Tell me what you will need and it will be done,” Ulfric interrupted his housecarl before anything more could be snarled.

                Loriel glanced to Ulfric, his lips pressing into a thin line, and he briefly shook his head. “There is a spot in the Reach where the meeting will be able to go uninterrupted by both Imperial forces and the Thalmor. I need to get a message out there first, that will take a few days on its own but once I get a response, the meeting can be held,” he explained.

                There was nothing that Loriel needed except himself pulling a few strings in the dark.

                Potentially as Dragonborn as well.

                Ulfric understood that he wasn’t comfortable exposing himself yet, especially not to his brother, but as for Yrsarald and Galmar, Ulfric had actually gotten a laugh out of Loriel at the suggestion of them finding out: Galmar was sure to shit himself from the blasphemy of the hero of lore being an elf and Ysrarald would probably be stunned for a maximum of twenty seconds before he’d demand for Loriel to tell him every story of his adventures as Dragonborn.

                But from the sounds of it, they might be able to have the meeting to approach Tullius about the alliance in a couple weeks at the very soonest.

                It made him anxious but excited all at once.

                Loriel gave a few more details, where the meeting would take place, in a mountain that was known for being thick with Forsworn at its foot. As soon as he had his reply, Loriel promised to send Balgruuf a message. It would be easier for Ulfric to sneak out of his hold than Balgruuf, what with the Stormcloak leader’s tendencies to travel around on patrols, but if Balgruuf could find an excuse to be absent for a couple days, then they would have few issues with the plan.

                It appeared that the hardest part of the entire plan was going to be just getting there.

                With Balgruuf knowing part of Loriel’s web of contacts to get the letter to the right place, the party remained for another twenty minutes in the cavern while Loriel wrote and sealed the letter before the two companies set off in their separate directions. Balgruuf would be able to get at least half a night’s worth of sleep and return to his duties without any hesitation while Ulfric’s company would be thrown off half a day.

                Not that Ulfric minded too much.

                He glanced at Loriel, clinging to his brother’s back in terror the moment the horses took off, and smiled to himself.

                Loriel looked exhausted, and the Jarl hoped that with Loriel’s normal sleeping schedule thrown off by staying up all day and half the night, he would rest well for once.

                They would just have to wait and see.

                Either way, Ulfric had Loriel, a cat, and a warm bed to look forward to, just the same as he had been for the last four, no, it was five now, days.

                And Loriel couldn’t scramble off the horse fast enough, the bare edges of an anxiety attack barely held back before Laronen managed to get to him and breathe him through the ordeal.

                Watching as the brothers escorted each other back to their own rooms, Ulfric nearly jumped in surprise when Galmar gave him a hard slap on the shoulder, a grin on his lips. “We’ll get those bastards yet,” his housecarl grinned, his general smirking over his shoulder at the Jarl.

                They were right.

                The war against the Thalmor was nearing its end, with only a handful more steps standing between them and victory.

                They were going to win.

                And then he could reach for the life that he wanted to have.

                There was so much that he wanted for himself now, a life that if someone had asked him of it thirty-one years ago, he would have only said that he didn’t know. But now he did.

                He stretched his arms over his head with a deep yawn as he ascended the steps, and he found Loriel waiting for him, not outside his room but his _own_.

                Loriel knew his practice of getting changed before he would join the Altmer in his room.

                And Loriel was already dressed for the night.

                With an orange tom cat purring in his arms.

                A thin, nervous smile settled on the elf’s lips, as though he was wondering if maybe he was overstepping some line.

                The Jarl only opened the door with a warm, sleepy smile in return, his hand on Loriel’s back as he allowed the other to enter first, and closed the door behind them.

                Loriel kept his back turned, settled on one side of the bed while Ulfric changed, settling for simply removing his boots, mantel, and shirt. He didn’t want to keep the other waiting.

                Baby kept trying to curl up on his pillow, with Loriel regularly picking him back off until Ulfric settled himself down, claiming the feather stuffed cushion from the feline with humor on both of their mouths.

                And then, Loriel finally relaxed, lounging down beside him, shoulder to shoulder, arms overlapping, and fingers intertwined.

                So perfect and so simple.

                Everything Ulfric wanted as he let sleep quickly claim him.

                He dreamed of the two of them right there, right where they were.

                Loriel lounging half way on him, chest to chest, his head tucked under his chin, a pointed ear against his collar, listening to the heart that beat in his chest.

                He could hear the soft breaths of the other, and the wind outside his window.

                Birds starting to sing.

                And he felt his dreamed desire shift, no longer chest to chest but still close, and he sleepily peeked open his eyes, a soft _hm?_ in his throat.

                All he could see in the dim light between darkness and dawn was Loriel’s candlelight eyes and the blue tone his skin took on in the aurora light.

                And he was just watching him.

                Reaching up, his fingertips stroked Loriel’s cheek, slow and warm, catching slightly on the stubble of his jaw.

                The Altmer closed his sad eyes and leaned into the touch, peaceful and quiet, soft and willing.

                No words were needed, not even in his dreams, and he traced his free hand down the other’s back, settling at the small of his back, a sleepy smile on a mouth that could sing sweeter than any bird.

                And those amber eyes opened.

                And he leaned forward, slow and without hesitation.

                And warm lips brushed against his own.

                So soft and simple.

                Perfect.

                Ulfric could only smile and close his eyes.

                What a dream to remember, he thought, as he dreamed another dream.


	37. Chapter Thirty-Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just FYI, this is also posted on my Fanfiction account too. Same name, same story. Enjoy. And don't forget to comment please.

                Ulfric’s head was throbbing and two very specific men were not helping his situation by any means.

                The first of those two men, and the greater but less _present_ problem, was Commander Maro of the Emperor’s Penitus Oculatus.

                Not five days after the meeting with Balgruuf, he as well as the other Jarls of Skyrim had received official letters from the commander issuing that, under the pending investigation of the murder of the Emperor’s cousin, a detailed observation of security was being demanded of the entire country.

                This however led to Ulfric’s second and more active and persistent problem: his own housecarl.

                Galmar protested Ulfric’s will to accomidate the demand quite actively, and quite vocally as well, to the point that he occasionally had Loriel in destress under the man’s sheer volume. Even after Ulfric explained the political reasons behind agreeing, that the idea of denying would be an affront to the Emperor and Commander Maro would see such as a threat to the safety of the Imperial leader which, in turn, would lead to even more scrutiny under the suspicion of plotting more than just a war of independence against the emperor, something that Ulfric was not willing to take the risk of in even the slightest fashion, Galmar still complained.

                And it had gotten old fast.

                “Galmar, if you don’t stop, Ulfric’s gonna be looking for a new housecarl.”

                Loriel’s musical voice was refreshing to his ears, but when he looked up, the Jarl’s brows rose in surprise.

                Loriel had a pair of winter coats slung over his arm.

                And those amber eyes were right on him, glimmering like fire.

                “I’m borrowing you for the rest of the day. You need to get out of this room,” the Bard declared, and tossed one of the coats at him.

                Catching it on reflex, Ulfric frowned at the Mer, “Loriel, I have things I need-”

                “To take care of, yes I know, it’s unfortunately your job,” Loriel interrupted and quirked his brows at him, “but I wasn’t asking, Ulfric. Come on.”

                Even Galmar gaped at Loriel’s boldness as Loriel sharply turned and stepped back out of the room.

                It was startling.

                But thrilling at the same time.

                And after a moment of hesitation, Ulfric swallowed his nerves and got up from the war table’s desk.

                “You aren’t seriously going to let that elf speak to you like that,” Galmar stated, gaping as Ulfric shrugged on the coat. “You can’t be serious.”

                “He is right, Galmar. I have been in this room for too long,” Ulfric told his housecarl.

                “You’re letting him _lead you around_ by your _dick_ like its a leash.”

                A stillness settled among the room, even Ysrarald went silent with surprise, and the Jarl’s eyes rested on his friend, and his subordinate, in a cold stare.

                “I did not hear that,” he stated, voice low with threat. “Did I?”

                And Galmar swallowed.

                His posture straightened uncomfortably and his head ducked a little bit and he answered softer, “No, you didn’t.”

                And with that, Ulfric turned out of the room to gather himself with Loriel.

                “My ears rang like the first time I heard my mother curse,” he heard Ysrarald comment to his housecarl.

                “I was out of line.”

                “You were out of your mind.”

                At least Galmar realized it quickly as Ulfric watched Loriel at the end of the great hall, pulling the heavy coat on and straightening it with a few strategic tugs.

                “So where are you leading me?” the Jarl inquired as he kept the coat folded over his arm, and Loriel smiled.

                “It’s a surprise. You’ll like it, I think,” the elf answered with a cheeky grin.

                It was one of his rare true smiles that slipped out between the cracks of his heartsickness, and Ulfric quietly admired it as he motioned for Loriel to lead him to this ‘surprise’.

                The Altmer’s Legionnaire’s Disease seemed to finally be falling asleep, allowing Loriel to rest with fewer nightmares, less screaming. The mornings where the sheets did not need to be changed from Loriel sweating through them were increasing, and he seemed to be coming back easier after every anxiety attack.

                Now all Ulfric hoped to be able to accomplish was to protect his bard from any more surprise onslaughts that would trigger another episode, be it Legionnaire’s… or heartsickness.

                An impossible task, but one Ulfric was willing to put his whole heart into.

                For as long as Loriel would let him.

                But how long would he though, the Jarl wondered as he watched Loriel’s shoulders, the Mer quietly lead him through the city and towards the docks, down the stairs, and Ulfric listened as the elf greeted the Argonians who still chose to work down by the waters. Those that met Ulfric’s eye greeted him formally and the Jarl politely returned the gesture before Loriel led him away.

                And off the edge of the dock.

                He couldn’t remember the last time he had wandered this way, up the snowy mountainside that hugged the cold stone wall of Windhelm, letting only the wind speak between them until they had almost passed the wall entirely before Loriel stopped and turned to him.

                A nervous breath clouded the cold air in front of him and his smile was equally anxious.

                “Do you trust me?” he asked.

                The question itself made him feel uneasy, but after a long moment, the Jarl nodded.

                Somehow this didn’t ease the tenseness of Loriel’s smile and he rubbed his hands together briefly, “Auri-El, this is gonna be different,” he murmured before he turned away and drew a deep breath.

                And Ulfric realized what for only a heartbeat before he did it.

                “ ** _Odahviing_**!”

                The Thu’um was not as loud as Ulfric thought it would be, and in fact it barely carried on the wind, but he could feel its power resignating, practically _ringing_ through the air.

                Winged Snow Hunter…

                And then…

                And then came the overwhelming pressure.

                The _sound_ of that quiet thu’um being answered with a distant roar.

                “A dragon?”

                And Loriel looked back to him.

                “I want you to meet my general, Ulfric. And my teacher.”

                Cold seeped into the Nord’s bones, fear and awe in equal measure, as the wingbeats grew louder, stronger, _closer_ , and then he saw the beast.

                Wine colored. With snowy wings.

                An image vaguely familiar but he couldn’t remember from where.

                The wind swept Loriel’s hood back from his face as the dragon batted its wings and then landed in the snow with still ground-trembling force, wing-knuckles nestled in the snow and its keen eyes peered down at Loriel, a growl in its throat before those eyes flicked over Ulfric.

                “ _Drem Yol Lok_ ,” Loriel greeted, his voice dropping and accent growing thick with the tones of Skyrim.

                The voice of Arson.

                “ _Drem_ , _Dovahkiin_. _Wo hin wundun los_?”

                _Peace, Dragonborn. Who is your guest?_

                The beast’s voice rattled in its throat, the Thu’um polite but not without power, just as Loriel’s call had been.

                And Loriel looked back to Ulfric, awe in the Nord’s throat as he turned his back on the creature to face him fully.

                “Ulfric, this is my general. He was my escort to finally defeat the World Eater,” he introduced, and then looked back to the great beast. “Odahviing, this is Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak. _Strunkodaav_. He has been keeping me safe this last year while I healed from the battle.”

                _Strunkodaav_. Stormbear.

                The memory of the title was a distant echo, like a long forgotten memory, or a faded fond dream.

                And Ulfric managed a nervous bow in his awe, “ _zu’u bonaar_.”

                _I am humbled_.

                The beast snorted in amusement, and almost seemed to smirk. “ _Onik konahrik_. Your warlord has adequate manners, _Dovahkiin_.”

                And Loriel shot Odahviing a look that was worth ten sarcastic quips, “you could take a leaf from his book, bud.”

                It was amusing to see a mere Mer sass a dragon, but perhaps Loriel was the only one who could get away with it.

                “I want you to escort us to _Monahven_ , if you would. There is a golden war on the horizon and it is long overdue that Ulfric be introduced to the Old One.”

                The great beast huffed, almost irritated, but held itself in check, “ _Mu bo kotin stinselok_. Come.”

                And then the dragon bowed and remained lowered.

                Loriel looked back to Ulfric and the smile he gave him was full of life and thrill.

                “This is something I’ve wanted to share with you for a while now. Come on.”

                And without hesitation, the Dragonborn hoisted himself up onto the crimson dragon’s back, settled behind the spikes of its neck and offered a hand to the Jarl. And with hesitation, he took it.

                He couldn’t believe what Loriel was doing.

                What _he_ was doing.

                They were on the back of a dragon and-

                And Ulfric couldn’t restrain the shout of surprise when the beast suddenly shot into the air, his arms locking around Loriel’s waist in his fear, and above the wind he thought he heard laughter, no, more clearly than that was the fact that he _felt_ it, quaking between his arms and against his chest.

                Loriel’s.

                After a moment to regain his bearings, the muscles and scales beneath him rhythmically rippling from every powerful movement, Ulfric pushed Loriel’s whipping hair away from his face, hugging close and shouting so the elf could hear him the only thing he could think to say, “I thought you didn’t like riding!”

                Looking back over his shoulder, so close that Ulfric could almost feel the warmth from the other’s chilled cheeks as Loriel grinned without shame, “I thought you did!”

                The Jarl couldn’t withhold his own grin, his heart hammering against his ribcage as he held on tightly and got to see what dragons saw every time they flew. He got to see the same last glorious sight of the world that Loriel did before he defeated with World Eater, and the thought that Loriel was sharing this rare gift with _him_ was thrilling.

                This, all of this, it was so much more than he would have ever guessed.

                It was marvelous, and wonderful, and amazing, and _Loriel_ was sharing it with him.

                He was sharing this secret world that only he as Arson had been part of before.

                And he couldn’t help but marvel.

                Eventually Ulfric became aware that despite the heavy fur coats that they wore that they were both shivering from the cold altitude, the wind needling right into them and Loriel receiving the brunt of it by sitting in front, the Altmer trembling in his arms as the peak of the Throat of the World drew closer and closer.

                And then, they were upon it.

                The dragon landed just as rough as Ulfric imagined, jarring in an ugly way that made his bones ache.

                Stiffly, Loriel threw a leg over the back of Odahviing’s neck and drooped down to the snow, his legs collapsing beneath him. And like a fool, the Jarl jumped down after him, in the heroic effort to help, only for the jarring ground beneath the thick of snow to send shooting aches up his legs, asleep in the worst way, and he toppled over, nearly landing right on top of the Altmer.

                The great beast didn’t wait any longer.

                And it launched itself back into the sky, grounding them to the snow with its powerful downthrust and dusting them with fresh powder.

                Above them, the dragon circled the mountaintop once before flying away, and then he heard as much as felt the tremble of laughter against his elbow, Loriel’s head thrown back against the snow with joyful laughter that seemed to take every hint of sadness that hid within his chest and throw it to the wind, a sound so rich and warm and full of life.

                It was the most beautiful sound that ever existed.

                And he just couldn’t stop himself.

                It was the catch of stubble against the grain of his beard, and the sensation of a cold mouth against his lips, the sound of delight swallowed and cut off in surprise by his mouth for the long lingering _innocent_ single _second_ that he dared to do the one thing he had wanted to do for so long.

                Hesitation.

                And he retreated.

                Loriel was just as stunned as he imagined he would be, staring up at him with wide eyes, confusion and bafflement clear on his face, and the Jarl wondered if he shouldn’t have done that. _Divines_ , he wouldn’t trade that one moment for the _world_ but he still wondered.

                Had he overstepped himself and intruded on Loriel’s comfort? It was a boundry they hadn’t discussed, one he didn’t know the rules of and he dared to cross for the sake of his own impulse.

                It was all they could do to just stare at each other for a long moment before an anxious burst of bravery wound itself in the Jarl’s gut and he swallowed his nerves enough to speak, the words awkward and jerky in his throat even before they met the cold mountain air, but…

                Every word was true.

                “I couldn’t go on like that any longer. Pretending. That I didn’t want you as much as I do.”

                At first there was nothing, only stunned silence before Loriel slowly sat up and Ulfric gave him space, discomfort obvious on his face as he tucked his chin, not meeting his eyes.

                Reluctance.

                And he wondered with shame if Loriel might have thought…

                “It has nothing to do with you being Arson,” he added, anxious, “I’ve wanted to do that for a long time.”

                “An endearing display. _Paar_ ,” a deep voice suddenly rumbled, so startling that Ulfric near put a crick in his own neck when he whipped his head around to look for who spoke.

                And instead found, leaning over the top of a decrepit Word Wall, the large head of a grey dragon, one of the beast’s large horns broken.

                It lazily blinked at the two of them and then carefully clambered over the top of the wall, Loriel hauling himself quickly to his feet.

                “ _Drem Yol Lok_ , _Paarthurnax_ ,” Loriel greeted, bowing slightly.

                The name was all it took to forget temporarily his own anxiety over the impulsive kiss, and his breath caught in his chest.

                Paarthurnax.

                Master of the Greybeards.

                A dragon.

                And suddenly it made so much sense.

                Even in his years of learning under Arngeir, Borri, Wulfgar, and Einarth, he had never heard of the Greybeards having another master, another leader.

                Paarthurnax.

                The Greybeard Ulfric never got the chance to meet.

                The dragon bowed low, “ _Drem Yol Lok_ , _Dovahkiin_. _Hin sil lost haas_. Your heart is light once more.”

                Then, the great creature turned his gaze to Ulfric.

                “The young greybeard. You finally come to my _strunmah_. No longer student of _Thu’um_ , but master of your own ambition. _Konahrik_.”

                Ulfric nervously swallowed and glanced to Loriel as the Dragonborn spoke.

                “We need your advice. There is a war coming for us all, _Paarthurnax_ , and I can’t stay out of it any longer. Please.”

                The Old One rolled an eye back over to the Dragonborn and hummed in thought.

                “The wars of men are not wars of the _Dov_. _Evgir Unslaad_. Season Unending. They are brief affairs in our eyes, but continuous. Like ripples on a lake. Where one breaks upon the shore, another will soon follow.”

                Loriel’s face flushed with irritation, “the Aldmeri Dominion won’t stop until it has everyone and everything under its control! Once they have the races of Man and Mer and Beast kneeling at their feet, who do you think will be next? The _Dov_ will be their next target and they’ll put damn good effort to have nothing but obedience from all!”

                “ _Drem_ , _goraan gein_. They will try and they will fail. It would not be the first uprising against the _Dov_. That honor belonged to the very first of your kind, _Dovahkiin_. The land where he erected his own worship was torn away and set afloat when _Sonaak_ _Miraak_ ’s insolence was recognized. The Tongues. The Blades. War will come to the _Dov_ and we will persist.”

                “ _That doesn’t help me_!” Loriel shouted.

                His voice echoed, sharp and pained and he was shaking.

                “That doesn’t help,” he said, softer, his voice trembling and weak. “I like this world. I like living in it. I don’t want to die, and I don’t want the people I care about to die either. If the Aldmeri Dominion isn’t stopped, the world will burn in the fires of Magnus. _Please_ , _Paarthunax_ , I need _something_. _Anything_. You don’t need to do anything. Just… Just tell me what to do.”

                The great beast gave him a look of patience and sighed, slow and deep.

                “I cannot give you what you want. _Krosis_. The advice you desire is none I can give. But you will do as you always have, _wunduniik_ , with or without the advice of an old dragon.”

                He sounded almost apologetic.

                And Loriel looked down to the ground, distress so loud in his body language that it was Ulfric’s first instinct to lightly touch his shoulder. Except he shied from the touch.

                “Please. Don’t. I… I need some space. I’m sorry.”

                His words were barely above a whisper, and he took a step back and then away.

                And Ulfric watched with his heart heavy in his chest as Loriel retreated to the edge of the clearing, clambered onto a shelf of rock, and looked out to the rest of the world.

                He needed some space.

                He needed some time.

                And Ulfric couldn’t help but blame himself as well.

                “He wars with a darkness in his heart. _Tiiraaz_. It is lighter than when he first came to me, but it still weighs heavy. Trusting himself does not come as long as it casts shadows,” Paarthurnax murmured, watching Loriel as well.

                Ulfric swallowed, and closed his eyes. “He has been through so much. I just want him to have peace.”

                A soft huff scattered the snow before the dragon’s nose and he lifted his head.

                “You mortals are not meant to experience sadness and fear in prolonged duress like what he faces. _Unslaad tiiraaz_. _Unslaad faas_. He tires.”

                “I won’t let him be alone in this,” Ulfric said, calm and feeling strong.

                It was a promise.

                Even if Loriel didn’t want his help, he would give it, until there was nothing left to give and even then he would continue to try.

                And the Jarl turned to Paarthurnax.

                “He needs time. And I will give him time. He brought me here to finally meet you, an opportunity I lost when I left my teachers behind. I will not waste this opportunity, _Paarthurnax_ , if you will indulge me.”

                The Old One sat up, a little more proud, almost amused.

                “It has been long since I held _tinvaak_ with a stranger,” he murmured.

                And, Ulfric discovered, this dragon greatly enjoyed conversation.

                Between he and the teacher of the Tongues, hours passed and they discussed many topics, the history Paarthurnax held with the Greybeards, the Tongues he had taught, of Dragonborns, of dragons who held similar ideals to Paarthunax. Of the Way of the Voice, of Jurgen Windcaller, and with the great creature’s love of talk, Ulfric was repayed with a gift.

                Paarthurnax helped him meditate on a _Rotmulaag_ , a Word of Power, and with it, one of the few _Thu’um_ s that he knew became stronger.

                _As you push the world, so does the world push back_ , he advised. _Think of the way force may be applied effortlessly. Imagine but a whisper pushing aside all in its path. That is Fus_.

                _Su'um ahrk morah_.

                _You will push the world harder than it pushes back_.

                And when the word finally settled in his chest, warm like the heat of a candle, Ulfric opened his eyes, and thanked him.

                The sky was darkening, so high up on that mountain, and it was an unfortunate fact that he could not stay at the Throat of the World as long as he desired. He hoped one day he could return, to learn more from the Old One.

                And as Paarthunax retreated, to return to his own meditation, Ulfric quietly approached the Mer who had not moved from where he had settled himself hours ago.

                His hood was pulled up high and tight, the small opening in the material blocked by his fur-lined sleeves.

                Calmly, he sat beside Loriel.

                A soft breath.

                “I’m going to sit here until you’re ready to talk.  You don’t have to say a word until you’re ready, but I’m not leaving you alone until you do.”

                It was several long moments before Loriel moved, his legs slowly uncurling from his chest and he lowered his hood, his nose still red, and his cheeks streaked with tears long dried and frozen to his cheeks, looking in equal parts miserable, and ashamed, but also at peace. Like whatever he had been warring with in his heart, he had come to terms with.

                A wet sniff, and he shivered, hugging his arms around his chest.

                Silence.

                And then a very quiet, “we can’t.”

                His voice was like an aching wound, scraped raw.

                Another sniff.

                “It’s… It’s nothing to do with me, Ulfric. Nothing to do with Arson. I… I already knew how you felt. I have for a while,” he admitted, turning to the Jarl but not _looking_ at him. “It was… Your feelings are kind of a poorly kept secret in Windhelm. It was a rumor I heard, when I was still recovering from what the Thalmor did to me. That you might care for me more than just as a friend. I overheard all sorts of ideas on it. That it was just lust or something more whimsical,” and he let out a wet laugh, accompanied by a bitter smile. “In the past year I heard it whispered so often that I started looking for signs of it as well, that maybe you cared more than you said you did. What your motives behind your kindness might be. And… And I believe you, when you’ve told me that you care. But… We _can’t_.”

                Finally, those amber eyes rose and met his and he felt a stab of pain in his chest.

                Sorrow.

                “If any of the Jarls you put into power learn that… that this rumor is more than just rumor, they won’t throw their lots behind you to become High King at the Moot. Some might even hesitate if they just hear _word_ of the rumor. They’ll worry about the truth behind it and wonder if you’re being manipulated by an Altmer, that you might not be as true to the ideals that you preach against the Dominion.”

                Ulfric swallowed down the dryness in his throat and frowned deeply at him.

                “I don’t care what they think,” he said firmly.

                And Loriel looked at him sharply, his brow crinkled and lips trembling, “You better start caring, Ulfric!”

                The edge of a sob was on his voice and he barely kept it back, taking a deep breath, “I will _not_ be the reason all your efforts go down in flames. We _can’t_. I _won’t_ be the reason you don’t become High King. You’re the only one I think is truly capable of holding your ground against the Dominion and I’m not worth the cost of making you able to do so. I will _never_ be worth that price.”

                It was selfish and selfless all at once.

                That he truly believed that he would cost Ulfric everything.

                But that was the thing though.

                “But you are,” Ulfric murmured. “I want you, Loriel. And I am willing to pay any price to be able to love you out loud. I don’t want to wait until Sovngarde just to do so.”

                And this time, when he touched Loriel’s hand, the Altmer didn’t pull away.

                He stayed.

                Hand trembling under his.

                And all Ulfric wanted was to bring him peace.

                “Do you want me too?”

                Loriel closed his eyes and tears fell from his lashes, pained.

                “It’s not safe.”

                That was his whisper.

                But that wasn’t an answer to his question.

                “Do you want me too?”

                It was silence and hesitation, of frost growing on the edges of Loriel’s wet lashes and he sniffed again.

                Then his eyes opened, barely able to part at first and after wiping his eyes with a bare hand warmed by magic, the bard looked at him properly.

                Nervously.

                And he drew a breath to give his answer.

 

* * *

PROPER ART OF LORIEL ELSINLOCK! Lineart is the kind creation of [Lynngo-art](http://lynngo-art.tumblr.com/) on tumblr, all I did was color! Go send her love! Commission! She's marvelous!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hehehehehehe, cliffhanger.  
> Please don't kill me, I love you.


	38. Chapter Thirty-Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just FYI, this is also posted on my Fanfiction account too. Same name, same story. Enjoy. And don't forget to comment please.

               It lingered in his mind, soft and wanting.

                How desperate he had been to just kiss Loriel even once.

                And now it was like this.

                “Ulfric.”

                His eyes flicked up to Galmar, and his thumb stilled against his lower lip.

                He swore he could still feel it.

                His housecarl gave a slight jerk of his head towards the Great Hall.

                “You’re guest has arrived,” the man huffed, still irritable about the matter, but it was a matter he would have to live with because it was not his call to make but his Jarl’s.

                And Ulfric rose to his feet, calm and composed.

                He had to be after the mess that had happened just yesterday.

                It was his fault, but it still happened.

                And now it all was what it was.

                He would have personally preferred to have Loriel and Laronen both kept as far from Gaius Maro as possible but it was impossible to hide two Altmer in Windhelm, least of all when they were sitting at the great table with a chess board between them, both pairs of amber eyes neatly settled on the Imperial rather than their game.

                Loriel didn’t look at him when he approached, those eyes glowing like hearthfire.

                Like the dragon fire in his soul.

                “Maro,” Ulfric greeted the young man whose traveling cloak just barely hid his Penitus Oculatus armor, a young man who had the same skin as his mother but his eyes were all his father’s, “welcome to Windhelm.”

                “The pleasantries are unnecessary, Jarl Ulfric. I’m just here to do my job.”

                His voice was snippity, sour.

                This was likely the last place he wanted to be.

                “Indeed you are but there is no reason to not treat you well.”

                “Because I could report back all sorts of nasty things about you?”

                “Because you are the son of the man who was my commanding officer in the war. I still hold great respect for your father despite our current differences.”

                Ulfric’s statement made Gaius Maro straighten and immediately drop the attitude.

                And as he walked the young Imperial back towards the War Room so that he, his housecarl, and his military officer could be filled in at least on the general outline of Gaius’s task, he heard Loriel speak.

                “Three wild guesses why Commander Maro’s son is here and the first two don’t count.”

                “I don’t know, I don’t want to know, and I don’t want to think about it in any way, shape, or form,” Laronen replied.

                “Spoiled sport. Your king is in danger.”

                The Jarl hid amusement at Laronen’s undignified squawk as he stepped behind the wartable and by the time he made it to the other side, he had managed to wipe his expression clean once more.

                “Your father’s letter stated you will be observing the safety checkpoins of the city. And guard rotations.”

                Gaius nodded. “And spending the night in your barracks.”

                Ulfric nodded at the addition.

                “And you will be leaving in the morning.”

                “That’s correct.”

                “We will stay out of your way then.”

                It was that simple.

                Commander Maro’s son was here to do his job and that was it.

                Cooperation in the matter would only make it easier in the long run.

                “If I may, sir, before I begin.”

                Ulfric’s sea blue eyes glanced back to him.

                “Yes?”

                Gaius nodded his head towards the Great Hall.

                “You are housing two fugitives of the Thalmor here in Windhelm. You do realize I am obligated to include this in my report, correct?”

                “I realize this.”

                “And you are not at all worried?”

                “For what reason would Ulfric have to be worried about that?”

                Loriel was leaning against the doorframe behind Gaius, arms crossed neatly across his chest, eyes just as steady as his voice, practically a picture of power in the same way a lazing sabercat looked both at ease and still somehow dangerous.

                Thrilling even as the Altmer ignored him, his attention entirely on the Imperial.

                And Gaius swallowed.

                “The Thalmor have put out warrants for both you and your brother. Rewarded. Dead or alive.”

                “Unsurprising,” Loriel drolled, “they really could do without the bounty though, considering the Ambassador has already sent multiple assassins for both of us and yet we are still alive.”

                Gaius paused.

                He didn’t know about the assassins.

                Which made Ulfric wonder if the Penitus Oculatus were even aware of how badly the Thalmor really wanted Loriel and Laronen dead.

                “You can politely tell your father that the resources Elenwyn is wasting in effort to kill us both would be better put towards helping Imperial soldiers, after all, she did waste three weeks just torturing me only to lose one fugitive and have another added to the list.”

                The boy swallowed.

                And then nodded.

                Hesitantly, he looked back to Ulfric and drew a breath.

                “I will be on my way.”

                And then, without further word, he stepped past Loriel out into the hall. And then out of the Palace of Kings.

                Loriel looked back to his brother.

                “Come here, we need to talk,” Loriel stated before turning his eyes to Galmar, Ysrarald… And Ulfric himself.

                “We _all_ need to talk.”

                He sounded grim almost.

                Laronen didn’t take too long to join them in the war room, before Loriel glanced to Ulfric. “Somewhere more private, yes?”

                And he nodded.

                The five of them troddened up the steps of the North Wing, following the Jarl up to his own room, and he gazed upon all of them as he leaned against the footboard of his own bed, Loriel lingering by the door while the others situated themselves and Galmar told the guard to stay at the bottom of the stairs and not let anyone pass until given order otherwise by either he, Ysrarald, or Ulfric.

                Loriel looked calm, powerful, and distant, nearly regal in his own way once the door was shut and they were certain they were in peace.

                Then, with a slow, deep breath, his gaze passed over all of them. “We all need to be ready to be on the move tomorrow. The meeting has been set for the day after.”

                Galmar looked at Loriel in bafflement.

                “That hardly gives us time to prepare! To make excuses!”

                “Prepare _tonight_. We have an opening of no more than three days to accomplish all this,” Loriel snapped at him, his patience thin at the interruption. “Our side’s excuse is easy, visiting the Rift Stormcloak camp for whatever logical reason you can think of. Balgruuf can think for himself. Either way, you four will need to wait for nightfall before you can make the second leg of your journey to the Reach. If you pace your horses right, you’ll make it there by dawn.”

                “Us four?” Laronen asked, “You’re not coming with?”

                Loriel shook his head.

                “Someone needs to make sure that there’s enough chaos to keep Elenwyn busy. I’ll be leaving before dawn tomorrow.”

                “ _Loriel_ , if you’re doing something dangerous-”

                “ _Laronen_ , we’re all already in danger. Gaius Maro’s presence is the least of our worries, and his report to his father with the information I _gave_ him will only help our position. If _I_ don’t do this, all of our progress in this matter _won’t work_. All the people that I have invested in this _need_ me to act at certain times and that certain time is _soon_ , brother,” Loriel cut him off sternly.

                “And when are you going to tell us who all these people of yours are?” Galmar grumbled.

                And candlelit eyes fell upon him.

                “When we reach a time in our lives where we _don’t_ need them.”

                “Cryptic.”

                Loriel huffed, “allow me to state this simply so you can understand, _Stone-Fist_. I have not survived as long as I have without _recognizing_ where and when to make friends in high and low places and _when_ to keep my mouth shut about who they are and what they do, upon pain of death. Don’t ask again,” he snapped, his tone full of finality, that this was the end of the conversation and there would be no more to it unless they wanted the _upon pain of death_ part to become quite active.

                Ulfric cleared his throat quietly and stepped over to his desk, carefully spreading the map over the surface and weighing the corners. “What is our path and our schedule?”  
                And the four others approached.

                Shoulder to shoulder, Ulfric had to pretend he wasn’t hyperaware of Loriel beside him, those long fingers trailing over the map as he gave direction and the timetable that they needed to follow.

                If they arrived on time, they would have the morning to rest, the afternoon to take part in the meeting with some very specific individuals in attendance, and they would have to be back to the Rift camp by the following morning, all the while Loriel would be causing all sorts of calamities and chaos for his mother to deal with, to cover tracks and be certain everything went as flawlessly as possible.

                Galmar glowered at Loriel for his secrecy.

                “I suppose you have a camp of pickpockets, throatcutters, and murderers to do all this dirty work for you. By chance any of these bastards be at the meeting?”

                And the Dragonborn sneered at him.

                “I might, but I have a different man in mind for this arrangement.”

                There was nothing else Loriel could tell them.

                The information he did present was general enough to leave wiggle room and specific enough to make things easy.

                And Ulfric watched with his lips pressed thin as Ysrarald, Galmar, and Laronen filed out, Loriel moving to follow before he spoke up.

                “Loriel, a moment.”

                Laronen paused and looked back to his brother.

                “Go on ahead. Get our board set up for another game,” Loriel told him, and then he closed the door between them, offering privacy for whatever the Jarl had that he wanted to talk about between just the two of them.

                And the moment the Altmer lifted his gaze back to Ulfric, a smile broke upon his lips, and the Nord gently pulled him behind the path of the door, fingertips light upon his wrists, and their lips met, warm and soft and welcoming in the slow and thrilling kiss that had Ulfric’s blood singing in his ears and Loriel’s pulse quickening under his palm.

                Moments quiet and eager, stolen like light stole shadows.

                They had to be careful though.

                And as they broke, Ulfric gently stroked his thumb over the stubble of Loriel’s jaw.

                “What have you heard?” he whispered.

                “All sorts,” Loriel murmured.

                And told him every thread of the rumor that they now controlled.

                Theories of a fight, or realization, or maybe something else. The Jarl coming to terms perhaps, or maybe the madness of wanting the Altmer finally passing. By Loriel going back to sleeping in his own room and the two showing disinterest in each other, the public displays of affection Ulfric had gotten so used to giving now impossible under eyes had sent a whirlwind of rumors around the palace staff, and anyone who carried those rumors farther from the Palace would have it believed that Ulfric no longer wanted Loriel.

                But that wasn’t necessarily true.

                He had Loriel.

                But he had to be patient.

                Because if Loriel continued to insist on wanting Ulfric to be High King, they would have to pretend.

                He didn’t want to.

                But Loriel wanted this so much.

                So he would.


	39. Chapter Thirty-Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just FYI, this is also posted on my Fanfiction account too. Same name, same story. Enjoy. And don't forget to comment please.

                He could still feel the phantom of that twisted metal band around his wrist when he woke. Like a piece of him had wandered away and he had to wait for it to come back to him with only a promise that Loriel would be careful wherever it was that he had dared to go.

                That was all Ulfric could really manage.

                A promise that they would both come back from this, and come back _safe_.

                Accompanied by one last kiss and one last good night.

                But it only made the longing he felt worse.

                That last look Loriel gave him, boardering on anxiety, and he couldn’t _stay_ there with him, to wrap Loriel up in safety and take his fears away, if only for a night.

                They couldn’t.

                There was no telling how long they would have to live in secret like this.

                And he hated it.

                He hated not knowing where Loriel was, or what he was doing. Did he have anyone backing him up, be it one of his faceless contacts or even one of his dragon allies? What if he got caught? What if he was killed? This was the first time in almost a year Loriel had set out on his own, to do something for all of _Nirn_ , and it scared Ulfric half to death at the _idea_ of it _repeating_.

                The Jarl didn’t realize he was shaking with nerves until he heard his door open and his heart lept into his throat.

                “Still moping, Ulfric?”

                His gaze rose to his housecarl, trembling hand curling into a fist as he sat up slowly.

                Galmar, as it turned out, didn’t seem to be entirely honest with his feelings about Ulfric’s pining over the bard, or at least his encouragement had only been for his Jarl to bed the elf, blow off some steam, as if that would be satisfying enough. Realizing that Ulfric honestly wanted more had been irritating evidently. And Galmar suspected disappointment over their superficial ‘falling out’.

                Ulfric chose to ignore the question posed as he rubbed a hand over his face and drew a deep and steadying breath, then combed his fingers through his hair, bringing it away from his eyes.

                “Maro’s son is still here?”

                Galmar huffed, “unfortunately, yes. Jorleif is having his breakfast _and_ rations for travel prepared, as you ordered.”

                “Good.”

                And he dismissed Galmar with a short, simple motion so he could ready himself for the day.

                He would have to maintain the air that there would be no differences occurring after Gaius Maro left, that Ulfric, his two most trusted generals, the Altmer healer, and a handful of guards would not be leaving only a couple hours after the Penitus Oculatus, and they most certainly had nothing planned as to the victory for both the country _and_ the war that the Aldmeri Dominion seemed to think was long over in opposition to them.

                If this all worked out as Loriel hoped, the Dominion would be completely blindsided.

                All of it hung in the balance of this _working_.

                Because if it didn’t…

                It would end as Loriel feared.

                Gaius was finishing his breakfast when Ulfric stepped into the main hall, his travel sack of rations neatly settled on the floor beside him, with Baby meowing, loud and long, at the Imperial for attention.

                “I didn’t know the Bear of Markarth had a cat,” Gaius commented as he approached.

                “The cat belongs to Loriel,” Ulfric informed him, picking up the cat and smiling fondly under the loud purr that the orange tom gave, ignoring his visitor for a moment while Baby curled up in his arms, golden eyes closing affectionately.

                And after a moment, he heard a small laugh.

                “Makes me miss the one we had. When I was growing up. Father gave the little beast to my mother when they married.”

                And Ulfric smiled faintly. “Good mousers are good gifts for a new household.”

                “If I may, Jarl Ulfric…”

                His eyes flicked up.

                And Gaius drew a nervous breath, “why did you have the Altmer rescued? You even had his twin captured, and instead of leaving him in shackles, he’s now walking Windhelm as the city’s healer.”

                A thousand answers came to mind and he quietly rubbed Baby’s ears as he thought.

                He had to restrain the fond smile from his lips as the answer came to him.

                “Because he gave me what I needed. Not what I asked for,” Ulfric murmured.

                His words drew Gaius’ attention clearly.

                “Even from the moment he first showed up at Windhelm, he gave me that. He gave me unapologetic honesty and shameless stubbornness. He’d call me out on my mistakes and wouldn’t shut up until he was heard. I think that honesty and stubbornness is also what charmed the city. He made changes happen because of that. That was why I ordered his rescue. Because he was good for the city. He was good for me. As for his brother… It was because I remembered a healer’s kindness in the depths of a Thalmor dungeon, years ago. Kindness that was given despite watchful eyes and doubtless punishment. I remembered and I wanted to see what a man like that would do if given a chance.”

                Gaius watched him with steady eyes.

                “And what did you see?”

                That answer was easy.

                “I saw a man who would have gladly given _anything_ , even his life, to make the world kinder,” he told Gaius Maro. He took a breath and gazed to the area of the table where Loriel and Laronen had been playing chess the day before, Loriel so far away and Laronen with his bride to be, having breakfast. Then, he continued, “That Mer has seen the horrors created at the hands of the Dominion, as up close and personal as I. Divines only know what nightmares haunt his sleep, but he is doing everything to spite a past where he didn’t get a choice. And I am glad to have him as an ally.”

                “Even though he is… was? Thalmor?” Gaius asked cautiously.

                “Men can change. So can Mer.”

                Gaius looked at him in surprise, and for a long moment, he looked down at his empty plate in silence.

                “The other one said that assassins had been sent. To kill both of them.”

                Ulfric nodded. “Laronen had advised me that they would come, long before any came. He called himself a loose end. But despite the persistent threat, he still steps outside to help the people. Even when they are almost successful at times, Laronen has continued. Terrified but dauntless.”

                Like another Mer he knew, standing in the face of certain death, trembling in fear, but holding his ground because he loved the world too much to let it be destroyed.

                And now, Loriel was doing it all over again.

                The Penitus Oculatus let out a breath.

                And then nodded.

                Before he got to his feet.

                “Thank you, sir, for your hospitality.”

                Ulfric lightly put Baby back down, and lightly clasped Gaius’s shoulder, friendly. Fatherly. And then walked him to the door.

                “Pass on to your father that if he ever wishes to come to Windhelm off duty, I will welcome him warmly.”

                And with that send off, he watched the young man as he went on towards his next destination.

                After that though, Ysrarald stepped down into the barracks to gather trustworthy guards, and Galmar made it his own business to inform the cooks that they would be traveling and needed rations.

                As for Ulfric, it was his job to inform his steward that they would be gone for three days, visiting the Stormcloak camp in the Rift. He had noticed some troubling issues, he stated, that needed to be addressed with that camp during his last visit to the camp, and he needed to have the peace of mind that it had been taken care of properly.

                The steward did not question his Jarl’s word, or that he was taking his housecarl and military general along with him.

                It must have been a serious matter indeed for them all to go, and that was the way Ulfric left it.

                They were three hours behind Gaius Maro’s departure and that worked just fine. As long as they made it to the Rift camp before dark, they could stick to Loriel’s timetable.

                After all, he and Loriel had both promised they wouldn’t be late any more.

                Ulfric almost felt bad for the poor beasts, their great chests heaving when the group finally arrived to the Rift encampment with a few hours to spare before dusk set in, allowing Ulfric time to handle his very excuse and straighten out the issue of overtouched rations he had noted in the months before, something that likely needed to be addressed more strictly to all the camps, and nearly an hour after darkness had settled, he and the rest of his group took off towards the Reach.

                The journey almost started badly, sneaking past the Rift’s Imperial camp in order to take the rocky pass between the Throat of the World and the southern mountains, and riding around the ruins of Helgen brought a weight of unease to settle in his stomach, but as the horses pushed on hour after hour, the town of Rorikstead eventually came into view.

                And just beyond where their guide lead them astray from the road, Balgruuf’s party was waiting astride their horses, joining them without hesitation and they road on, watching the path spread out before them.

                The smell of smoke was accompanying the first light of dawn, and as they followed the path down the embankment, they saw the smoldering ruins of Karthspire Camp laid out before them.

                Charred rows of Forsworn huts stood out black against the ground, more death than life present in the small valley.

                The area had been abandoned, those who survived likely fleeing to other redoubts, carrying their wounded with them.

                The place was an eerie echo of Helgen flashing across Ulfric’s mind.

                He could almost hear the screams again.

                Men and women. Children.

                People.

                Another disaster birthed by the rampage of another dragon.

                “Ulfric.”

                The man swallowed and sucked a noisy breath in through his teeth, steadying himself and hoping no one noticed the cold sweat that had broken out over his skin. And then, the Jarl urged his horse forward.

                Waiting for them at the base of Karthspire Mountain, Delphine stood more proudly than he last remembered in that black armor, blond hair pulled back tight away from her face.

                She was unaccompanied by the old man this time.

                After all, this was not the Peace Council.

                This was an arrangement to dissuade a war.

                And prepare for another.

                “The Blades welcome you,” Delphine greeted.

                Galmar gaped at her as Ulfric dismounted.

                “You’re the elf’s contact?” he balked, completely stunned at the idea.

                Delphine almost openly rolled her eyes as she turned away, motioning for them to follow after her, and into a cave.

                “I’ve been acquainted with Loriel for many years. You can only imagine my surprise when he decided to resurface and reach out for this favor,” she commented, giving a small motion and from the shadows of the cavern, a few individuals in armor identical to hers stepped out and took the company’s horses so that they could be looked after in the mean time.

                Balgruuf made a small sound of surprise when he seemed to recognize one. As did a couple members of Ulfric’s own company.

                Delphine did not linger though.

                “It is a favor that will certainly lend substancial aid for what is to come,” Balgruuf mentioned.

                “This plan of his is crazy enough that it just might work after all,” Delphine drolled on, vaguely amused, “I only hope that when this is all over, that fool might remember who helped. And who did not.”

                “My brother’s memory is long, miss. He won’t forget,” Laronen stated.

                “Is it now?”

                There was skepticism in her voice, something that prodded something in Ulfric’s chest with annoyance, but he restrained the urge to comment as Delphine lead the party through a maze of stunning architecture, rooms with patterned tiles on the floor, and finally, through a great welcoming chamber where several additional members of the Blades stood at attention.

                Sky Haven was a place like no other, Ulfric realized as he passed one or two individuals that he vaguely recognized as Delphine did not waste time to lead them further inside, showing the party around the last sacred safehaven of the Blades as though they were more of an offensive tour group she had been coerced into caring for for the day rather than a minimum of two of the leading swords and shields to redirecting the war back to where it belonged: against the Aldmeri Dominion.

                Huge tapistries and weathered banners hung from the walls, with hundreds of candles scattered over the stairs, ever illuminating the space, chasing away dark corners with their warm glow, while at the center of the large gathering area, a great stone table stretched out, podiumed and accented so that the speaker, likely frequently Delphine in Arson’s absence, would be backlit with the scene of the Banishment of Alduin.

                That…

                Was Alduin’s Wall.

                That was what almost every day of the ten years he had been training to become a Greybeard had been spent in awe of.

                Divines, if the Greybeards only knew of this…

                Ulfric failed to realize he had been abandoned by the tour group, completely transfixed by the Akaviri mural on the other side of the room that he almost didn’t notice the elderly Nord who came to stand beside him, until he heard him chuckle.

                “Isn’t it amazing?”

                A small smile curled on Ulfric’s lips as he tore his gaze away from the mural to turn it to the man.

                The same old man who accompanied Delphine at the Peace Council at High Hrothgar.

                “Esbern, isn’t it?” Ulfric asked.

                “Aye. You have a good memory.”

                “Not that good. Our mutual friend had to remind me before he left.”

                “The elf, yes? Odd one that. Good man though. Never would have expected…” and the man’s ramble trailed off as his mind wandered as well. He was looking at a dimly lit table not far from the entrance of the temple.

                It took a little squinting to recognize the shapes of three proud altars, one of Talos, one of Akatosh, and one of Kyne.

                “Learning he was a man of faith surprised me,” Ulfric mentioned, bringing Esbern back to the present.

                “Hm? Ah, yes,” the old Nord hmmed and haaed, “he respects more than I believe he realizes he does. He makes the Greybeards proud, just as he did the Blades.”

                “Did?”

                Esbern sighed, “we aren’t ungrateful for all that he has done, but his deeds to not allow us to ignore our duty, just as no matter the later deeds, no dragon’s crimes are exempt from the oath of the Blades.”

                Ulfric felt himself inwardly recoil at the realization of what the old man meant.

                Delphine’s falling out with Arson, with Loriel, had been because he would not kill Paarthurnax.

                Loriel chose the Greybeards over the Blades when it came to that matter, and Ulfric even recalled the debate outside High Hrothgar between Delphine and Arngeir, one which was postponed simply for the Peace Talks, just another battle that Loriel had done his best to simply postpone, and when Arson had disappeared to the world, perhaps he had hoped as well that the last awful request they had given him would go forgotten by the time he decided to resurface.

                Loriel respected and desired peace more than anything, but he equally knew war was sometimes necessary to obtain peace.

                That was why Loriel had agreed to play such a hand in what they were doing _now_.

                Ulfric frowned as he looked away from the table where Arson once layed his prayers, blue gaze finally settling on the group that Delphine was leading down the stairs above the mural, the tour having apparently reached its end without him.

                He supposed that he would simply have to figure out the area by himself.

                Later though.

                When his legs didn’t feel like lead and the mere thought of sitting didn’t immediately induce the sensation of pins and needles in both butt cheeks and thighs.

                Riding was not meant for the long-term, that was for certain.

                “I knew Arson had been busy,” he heard Balgruuf say as the man approached, absently gazing about the place in an equal sense of awe as Ulfric felt, “but I didn’t realize just _how_ busy.”

                Both of their housecarls were maintaining their distance, eyeing each other, and Ulfric couldn’t help but chuckle.

                “He always has been the busy sort,” Ulfric murmured quietly, their gaze meeting. “He ran all over Tamriel before you got him started on this path.”

                “Sometimes I regret it,” Balgruuf admitted.

                Ulfric offered a small smile, reaching out and gripping the other Jarl’s shoulder, “even if you didn’t, I think he would have eventually found it. He loves the world too much to sit on his hands for too long.”

                Both of them knew that.

                Balgruuf’s smile was thin, but there, and the expression in his eye was queer.

                “You’re different than you were before.”

                Ulfric knew he was.

                He credited Loriel for it.

                “He has a way of walking into people’s lives and making change happen.”

                “Don’t we both know it.”

                Both of them couldn’t help laughing like friends, both grateful for the same man who stepped into their lives for very different reasons, one to warn against the oncoming chaos and the other to seek the humble double-life of peace, and somehow managed to make them see eye to eye at long last.

                And just in time too.

                The group quietly filtered into the barracks where they could rest for a while, more than enough cots avalible for the Blades’ guests and Ulfric dropped down onto one of the beds, more than eager enough to be out of his armor for travel, but in the middle of removing his breastplate, he noticed the single door in the very back of the living quarters, lazily framed with red curtains.

                One of the Blades, a single Argonian of the group, noticed Ulfric’s gaze and tsked.

                “The Dragonborn’s room,” he said calmly as he moved to rouse one of the Blades who was still resting, trading off shifts, “Delphine keeps it locked when he is away.”

                Galmar scoffed, “I suppose she might as well throw away the key then.”

                The Argonian stared at him silence for a long moment. “You really don’t know anything, do you?” And moved on to his own cot farther away as the other Blade got up to begin their own day of work.

                Galmar stared, confused, and then looked from Ysrarald to Ulfric, before balking out a baffled, “What?”

                Balgruuf’s younger brother chuckled as he pulled a piece of his armor off.

                “This may be the first time a Dragonborn comes out of retirement,” Hrongar commented to his brother.

                Thorald Grey-Mane sighed, speaking up, “the man fought a war thought hopeless. Hopefully after this one, he won’t need to be disturbed any more.”

                Ysrarald gaped at them both. “He’s alive?”

                “He is,” Ulfric answered, and he pulled settled the last of the uncomfortable plate off. He could sleep in the chainmail. And then his eyes lifted to members of his own party, all of which had eyes on him, stunned silent. Galmar, Laronen, Ralof, and two of the hand picked guards were in just as much disbelief as Ysrarald was. They were the only ones kept out of the loop.

                Left in the dark.

                Those from Whiterun knew the truth, they knew who Arson was, they knew where he had been hiding, they knew who had been protecting him all the while.

                And it was likely Ulfric who was the most recent to discover this as well.

                But now there were six more outside of an entire city guard to discover just one small part of Arson’s secrets.

                That the man was alive.

                And well.

                “You _knew_?” Galmar demanded of his lord. And he whirled on Laronen, the Dragonborn’s very own Thalmor leak, “did you--”

                The healer shook his head, “I didn’t. Loriel, he seemed to know more--” he defended himself.

                And the Jarl observed as realization slowly dawned across both Nord and Altmer’s faces and he stretched his arms above his head with a groan.

                “Arson’s inside man has always been Loriel,” Ulfric stated, as casually as he could as he relaxed and pulled his feet up to stretch out on the uncomfortable cot, at first flat on his back and then settling on one side. “He gave a man longing for peace as much time as he could before it couldn’t wait any longer. Before _this_ couldn’t wait any longer. And I am glad Arson was given the opportunity to rest without eyes upon his back.”

                Ulfric caught Balgruuf’s gaze and hid a small, satisfied smile under the man’s subtle nod of gratitude.

                And then, after far too long of a day and night, the Jarl finally closed his eyes to rest.

                But hopes for a dreamless sleep were too much to ask for.

                The burning ruins were far too vivid in his mind.

                Smoke and ash, the screams of terror and pain and anger all around him with the beat of great wings thundering down from the sky and the silhouette of a man facing off against death manifested with only his voice as his weapon.

                Amber eyes like candles met his with fear before the flame was blown out with a voiceless Thu’um.

                Ulfric bolted awake, unsettled by the dream that had drove him to almost sweating through his undershirt, but once his awareness settled back into his skin and he recalled where he was, the Jarl was able to level his breathing.

                Most of his companions were still asleep, Ralof’s hand twitching and flexing in response to his dreams, Balgruuf softly snoring. It did not surprise him to see Galmar still sitting up, arms folded over his chest, the man’s chin was dropped to his chest with each slow rise and fall of that barrel of a chest telling Ulfric the truth that he had fallen asleep while taking watch, not trusting any of these people.

                It was Balgruuf’s housecarl who caught his attention in absence, methodically knotting and unknotting a short length of rope, a practice Ulfric had once taken up when he had been fresh from the war. But when her red gaze met his, he couldn’t prevent the jarring memory of that great black dragon from stealing the breath from his chest.

                All he could manage was a thick swallow and a shallow nod of acklowledgement before he stood and stepped out of the barracks.

                He wanted a bath, but until he returned to the comfort of his own Hold, the faint breeze that extended from the high end of the gathering hall would have to be refreshing enough as he quietly approached Alduin’s Wall and sank deep into his memories of the Greybeards teachings, pulling up stories of the prophecies like deeply rooted plants that were not unwanted but wanted elsewhere.

                Wanted on their lonesome.

                To be inspected and valued.

                And here he was, memorizing the feel of the cold stone beneath his hand, tracing the great prophecies depicted.

                “When misrule takes its place at the eight corners of the world… when the Brass Tower walks and Time is reshaped… When the thrice-blessed fail and the Red Tower trembles… When the Dragonborn Ruler loses his throne, and the White Tower falls… When the Snow Tower lies sundered, kingless, bleeding… The World-Eater wakes, and the Wheel turns upon the Last Dragonborn.”

                The words sounded hollow once he breathed them to life.

                The Akaviri knew what would come to pass all along it seemed.

                They recollected over the Dragon War thousands of years before the mural was even made, preserving the knowledge for forgetfully shortlived humans. Alduin’s return was inevitable, the Akaviri had realized, and they wanted to prepare their descendents for the chaos that was to come only for this place to be abandoned and forgotten until the very end of the prophecy was already in act.

                Strange how they foretold so many events in the breaths between the World-Eater’s Banishment and the rise of the Last Dragonborn.

                They foresaw the shattering and scattering of Battlemage Jagar Tharn’s Staff of Choas, the Dragon Break that lasted an instant that went on for an eternity with the waking of the Dwemer’s golem, the disaster of the Red Mountain that shook Morrowind to its very core, and even the Oblivion Crisis that tore open rifts into the world of man until at last the final descendant of Tiber Septim himself was made to stop it all.

                It also seemed that Ulfric’s own fair part in the phrophecies was forementioned as well.

                They had known of the White-Gold Tower’s fall that he had been lead to believe was his own fault, and there, in the etches and edges of a cracked mountain and warring men, Ulfric found his own actions that sundered the foundation of the Snow Tower when he spilled the blood of Skyrim by making her kingless.

                All before the World-Eater woke, and all eyes turned to the last person any of them had expected to save them.

                An unwanted son of the Thalmor who spread balm over the wounds of the world with a Voice that was not dragon-tongue but song, who was burdened to end a great evil on his own, and now the savior of the world turned his gaze upon a force that had lashed open so many wounds in the first place, this time though with the rest of the world willing to shoulder that burden with him.

                Just as Talos himself had, two Eras earlier.

                Strange to think it had been 637 years since the day Tiber Septim conquered Tamriel.

                Ulfric felt himself smiling as his fingertips traced the depicted Dragonborn’s armor.

                Loriel was more than anyone ever expected to be.

                Least of all himself.

                “Alduin set the world on fire. Funny how it took another arsonist to extinguish both fire and firestarter.”

                Ulfric lifted his gaze over his shoulder to Delphine, the Breton leaning back against the podium.

                She wasn’t looking at him though.

                She was looking at the World-Eater straight ahead of her, at the center of the Mural.

                “Arson once told me that in the middle of Solstheim, half buried under ash and snow, there is an ancient temple. Nothing more than a few ruined arches. We had no idea what it was until we found this place, and we discovered an old scroll that Esbern was able to translate. As it turned out, that old temple was made by the very first Dragonborn, a Dragon Priest during the reign of the beasts. Miraak. He had been alive at the same time as the Tongues. In fact, they had evidently turned to him for aid, begged him to use his power as Dragonborn to help them defeat Alduin,” she lamented, her nose wrinkled.

                “And he refused. He refused them and while they were left to craft their own way to stop Alduin, to make the Thu’um that could hault any dragon in its tracks, make it _know_ the feeling of mortality, he was staging his own rebellion. Because despite already being a king over man and servant only to dragons, he wanted _more_. He wanted godhood. And the dragons razed his temple to the ground for his betrayal.”

                The Grandmaster let out a steady breath and shook his head.

                “Arson spent days after the translation staring at this Wall, so terrified he barely slept. Miraak was the first and he did nothing. And here he was, the last, and he was supposed to clean up a mess his predecessor could have dealt with. He didn’t want any of this. He never asked for any of it. But there he was, doing it anyway. He said… He said, standing where you are now, that when this is all over, he hoped he would never need to speak to me again. He held so desperately onto hope that he wouldn’t fail in his task, because he was tired of running. He just wanted to rest for a bit. Then Arson set out to speak to the Greybeards, to find out from them the very Thu’um that could stop Alduin in his tracks. Yet, when he came back from the mountain, he was almost glowing with life. He had met the Grandmaster of your Greybeards, and he had a tapestry of hope held tightly in both hands instead of the threadbare strings he had been grasping in this room. When he told us he was entirely unwilling to do his duty as Dragonborn to end the dragon threat entirely, no matter who it was, we barred him from our shelter.”

                Ulfric stared at her, wondering what her game was in telling him all this.

                “He went on to try to face off against Alduin on his lonesome and nearly failed, and still held onto the hope of one more time. One more try. I don’t know who or what gave him that determination, but I felt grateful. Then I saw the pyre lit on the height of the Throat of the World and I feared we lost him all together,” the woman said, her voice going almost soft.

                There was sadness in her voice. Shame.

                Regret.

                He had felt it too.

                “I’m glad it was a lie.”

                She looked back to him at his words, and the corner of her mouth quirked, the barest hint of a smile.               

                “When this is all over,” Delphine said, “I hope he will never need to lie again."

                With that, she pushed off from the podium and onto stable ground. “Come. The noontide meal should be ready. Might as well take advantage of the time since you are up.”

                And take advantage of the time he did, allowing himself to meet many of the Blades, some of which he recognized as formerly being the Thane housecarls of various holds, others which introduced themselves as former mercenaries, swordarms, guards, and a few orcs who were native to the strongholds in Skyrim. Among their numbers was the single argonian who brought awareness of Arson’s survival to the less informed of the Stormcloak party, and one khajiit. With Delphine and her elderly archivist in tow, there had to be at least thirty Blades now existing in Skyrim.

                Loriel had been _very_ busy in the days between discovering Sky Haven and his banishment from it.

                No wonder it had been almost impossible for couriers to find him, he traveled around so much and so quickly, ever on the move, and when he wasn’t, it was because he was resting undisguised under Ulfric’s extended protection.

                A few of the other guests were awake to attend the meal, most being guards who had been brought for the dangers of travel marveling at their luck to be able to witness such a place. Balgruuf even made an appearance, absently massaging a crick out of his neck, finding it difficult to fitfully rest in a place that wasn’t home.

                Both Jarls would be sheepish if they were to confess being spoiled by their ranks.

                Balgruuf was taking his first few mouthfuls of food when a queer sound echoed through the structure and although those of the party looked confused, the Blades immediately jumped into action, every single one of them prepared no matter what they had been doing half a second before the noise came.

                If they were acting, it told Ulfric one thing.

                A dragon had made its approach.

                Ulfric got to his feet in a hurry, not hesitating to shout to one of his guards to go fetch Galmar and Ysrarald, he wasn’t about to stay inside while the Blades fought.

                “Its coming from the courtyard!”

                “Shit!”

                Of all days, Ulfric wondered as he trailed after the dragon hunters, Balgruuf not far behind him as soon as the man finished choking on his lunch.

                As the courtyard doors were thrown open and sunlight flooded the dark of the hall, Ulfric blinked, half blinded as he saw a shadow circling, releasing another loud roar before its great wings tucked and it dove down, its path veering at the end of the long path before it flew directly towards the entrance of the temple.

                Directly at them.

                Then there was hesitation in the Blades and Ulfric saw why at the exact same time.

                On the back of that wine-colored white-winged dragon was a shrouded figure, attire mismatched perhaps. It was hard to tell, they were moving too fast.

                And at the last moment, they pulled up and the dragon set rolling a gift to them.

                A man in heavy Imperial armor, clattering with every roll, the crimson cape tangling about his limbs before he rolled to a stop in a heap, flailing to right himself.

                And then General Tullius staggered to his feet, delivered to the meeting just as Loriel had promised.

                The Imperial laid eyes on the Blades, on Ulfric and Balgruuf, and he snarled, out of breath.

                “What in the name of the Eight Divines?!”

                So it appeared the meeting had officially begun.


	40. Chapter Thirty-Nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just FYI, this is also posted on my Fanfiction account too. Same name, same story. Enjoy. And don't forget to comment please.

                “Blades, standdown.”

                Delphine’s irritation was near palatable with plenty of undertones of ‘because of _course_ Arson would so something this dramatic and leave me to do clean up’. The entire situation had Loriel’s sarcasm written all over it.

                Ulfric had to restrain a smile from nostalgia.

                Recognizing the sensation of Galmar’s heavy hand upon his shoulder certainly helped, the man of course late to seeing the latest display of Arson’s antics. The Jarl of Eastmarch spared Balgruuf a glance as the man murmured a greeting to Laronen, the altmer nervously combing a hand through his haphazardous hair, the other tightly clutching a box that Ulfric knew was sealed with wax and velvet-lined, every sheet of paper stamped with individual seals of agreement to this plan.

                This plan that Tullius was an incredibly key part of.

                If this didn’t work…

                Ulfric didn’t want to think of the possibilities of what would happen if it didn’t.

                Or worse yet, what if it did and the Thalmor managed to beat them to the punch of it all.

                He could only pray that this would work.

                It had to.

                General Tullius’s anxiousness was understandable, drawing his sword as a precaution when Delphine strode forward but maintained her distance. He had just been kidnapped by a dragon after all, carried all the way from Haafingar to the Reach, and the cold air of the flight did no one any favors, Ulfric now knew by experience.

                “I apologize, General Tullius, for the methods that had to be used to get you here, but we needed to ensure you would be alone,” Delphine explained in mild greeting, her arms folded neatly over her chest, accenting the only slight bow she gave.

                That was the extent of her formality.

                The Imperial scoffed, his grip on his weapon shifting as his eyes flicked over her, recognizing her from the Peace Council, and then his gaze shifted past her, over the rest of the company that made up the group.

                Balgruuf, and Laronen, and Ulfric.

                And the small entourage of guards and Blades behind them.

                Tullius was without ally here, Ulfric realized uncomfortably.

                “So you had me snatched up by a dragon?”

                “To be fair, sir,” Laronen spoke up, awkwardly clearing his throat, “that wasn’t our idea at all.”

                Tullius bristled almost visibly.

                “Fourth Emissary Laro-”

                “ _Former_ , thank you,” the ex-thalmor cut him off sharply.

                “General Tullius,” Jarl Balgruuf spoke up, his tone soothing away the bristling undertones of aggression felt by multiple parties as he stepped forward, front and center to address the military governor, “there is an important matter we need to discuss with you, for the sake of all of Skyrim and perhaps all of Tamriel as well. Would you humor us?”

                The man had a way of disarming a room in ways Ulfric felt almost jealous of as he watched the tension in Tullius’s neck unwinde, sword lowering and eventually being sheathed.

                From the way Tullius glanced at him with apprehension, Ulfric supposed it was for the best that it had been Balgruuf to speak up. He would have received accusations otherwise.

                Motioning the Jarls, their seconds and thirds in command, the healer, and the Imperial guest away from the entrance of the safehaven, Delphine gathered them around the base of one of the great flowering trees the courtyard held, Ulfric gently resting a hand on Laronen’s shoulder to gently encourage him to give Tullius the box.

                “What’s this?” the Imperial inquired skeptically, unwilling to take it.

                Ulfric drew a nervous breath, and then he spoke. “We have been busy, Tullius, in the last year since the Peace Council. A lot of time and effort has gone into this, and this war has gone on far too long aimed in the wrong direction.”

                “You started this war!”

                “I have not forgotten what I have begun,” he stated, keeping his voice level.

                “General Tullius,” Balgruuf cut in, “please.”

                The man frowned bitterly and took the box, carefully sliding the lid free to gaze at the contents, carefully reading over Loriel’s neat penmanship detailing the alliance of Tamriel against the Aldmeri Dominion and their Thalmor, an invitation dictated to the Emperor himself for the Imperials of Cyrodiil to join the fight. The words were ones that Ulfric had helped him write, his voice as equally paired with Loriel’s, with Laronen’s information, gently urging for an end to the needless bloodshed of brothers on Skyrim’s grounds and focus their attention on the real enemy, an enemy to every man, woman, and child.

                “You can’t be serious,” Tullius scoffed, “you want _another_ war with the Thalmor?”

                Laronen’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Do you really believe that if you don’t fight against the Dominion, that they will stop trying to lord over the world?” he asked, shaking his head. “They will stop at nothing to squash any enemies that they have, to stamp out those who would seek to usurp them, and when their enemies have been forced to kneel, they are going to turn on their allies next, one by one until only the Altmer and the Dominion ideals remain standing. It won’t matter how good the behaviors of the Imperials are, General Tullius. If the Dominion isn’t brought under control, sooner rather than later, what’s left of the Empire will be next, without failure.”

                The warning hung heavy in the air, chilling Tullius the worst.

                “How do you intend to go through with this plan?”

                Ulfric spoke up.

                After all, it was he who was sheltering the two spiders which spun this great web, making it the masterpiece that it was.

                “We have been in contact with various influencial persons throughout Tamriel, Redguards, Argonians, Khajiit, Bretons, Orcs, Bosmer, Dunmer, even Altmers who do not agree with their brotheren about the Aldmeri Dominion’s design. These people will be able to rally their kin, to form a united army to fight against the Dominion. Wars between countries and brothers are being put to pause as we speak, to prepare. With or without the Imperial forces, Tullius, there will be a war against the Dominion.”

                Delphine shifted her weight from one hip to the other, “this meeting is essentially a formal courtesy by effort of the Dragonborn. I’d like to think that Arson wouldn’t be overdramatic enough to fly all the way to the Emperor’s palace to extend the invitation, but I really don’t have faith in that.”

                Ulfric personally doubted that, he felt he knew Loriel well enough that the man wouldn’t go _that_ far.

                Regardless of if Loriel would or wouldn’t though, Delphine’s casual threat seemed to be convincing enough for Tullius to carefully slide the lid back over the pages and tucked the box under his arm, the military governor shooting Delphine a look.

                “Just a word of advice but you should probably tell your Dragonborn that the Embassador gave the order for Thalmor to start shooting down dragons since he was spotted flying yesterday.”

                The mention made Ulfric feel anxious as Tullius casually heaved a sigh. “So how am I supposed to get out of here?”

                Delphine smiled and lightly touched the man’s shoulder pauldron, a slight tilt of her head, and the two of them parted ways from the Jarls and housecarls and military officers and one ex-Thalmor, a couple brief words shared all before Delphine threw herself back away from Tullius, a hair’s bredth before the Imperial was snatched up by one massive clawed food in a flyby and carried away, so fast that if any of them had blinked, the exchange would have been missed entirely.

                Stunned silence filled the courtyard for several long moments before it was broken by laughter, so deep and hard and infectious that Ulfric almost didn’t recognize it as his housecarl’s at all.

                And quickly that laughter spread to the other Nords among the group, even Delphine laughing mildly.

                Laronen and Irileth only slowly glanced at each other in confusion, either not fully comprehending the slapstick of the situation or simply not finding it half as funny as they did.

                Eventually though, they were able to calm themselves.

                The message had been delivered to Tullius, and Ulfric hoped that the box wouldn’t be lost mid-flight, and all that was left now was to wait and see what happened next.

                It would take time after all.

                Time Loriel had bought for them.

                And Ulfric sighed, gazing to the sky.

                There was a lot to be done.

                A lot could happen between now and if and when Emperor Titus Mede II responded to the invite.

                The group slowly retreated back inside the fortress and as they did so, Ulfric made a decision.

                He would take advantage of being in the Reach for a few hours to see how the city of Markarth was faring under Stormcloak leadership, kill time before darkness fell. Galmar and two guards would go with him, Ysrarald, Laronen, and the other three guards would remain at Sky Haven Temple until they returned, and from there they would go back home.

                Galmar approved of the idea once Ulfric mentioned it and it gave those who did not rest during the hours before the short meeting to catch up on sleep.

                “Take our horses,” Delphine offered once he informed her as well, “your beasts still need the rest, least you overwork them before you even make it back.”

                The exchange was one Ulfric was grateful for and with little less than an hour after Tullius had been snatched out of the courtyard, the Jarl of Windhelm and his entourage were enroute to the city. What he discovered though as he stepped through the city gates was a sobering realization that the reign of Jarl Thongvor Silver-Blood was not at all what he had hoped for.


	41. Chapter Fourty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just FYI, this is also posted on my Fanfiction account too. Same name, same story. Enjoy. And don't forget to comment please.

                The city was unspeakably quieter than the last Ulfric remembered it being.

                The market rabble wasn’t any different, but he noticed the way people nervously glanced any time a guard walked by, the tension in the butcher’s shoulder, the sudden hush that went through the few children he saw, even the beggars fell silent.

                Fear.

                So much fear.

                Even moreso when the citizens saw him and he felt the weight of their stares on his back as he and his men walked calmly through the city.

                Their distrust and gloom was so heavy it was almost palatable.

                Despite the surprise at the unscheduled visit though, the guards welcomed him warmly, perhaps in efforts to make a good impression on the potential future High King of Skyrim.

                But only the cold stone in his stomach made an impression, the hatred and fear and sorrow of the people. Not even in Windhelm had he seen such looks in people’s eyes, not even among the Dunmer who he had neglected or even the Argonians who had formerly been barred from the city.

                And these people, they were Breton, Reachmen, Redguard, Orc, and Nord alike.

                Of all ages and skills.

                The Understone Keep smelled of granite and mud, fanciful silver décor nearly hiding the off-gold gleam of Dwemer metal that had once been familiar to him as he stepped into the hall, the anxious voice of a man bouncing off the walls of a fortress that felt more like a draugr tomb than anyone’s home.

                “My family has owned that land for generations! You can’t do this!”

                “I’m Jarl, I assure you, I can. Yngvar, have this man arrested.”

                Thongvor’s voice was crisp and savage, an audiable sneer as he slouched on the throne of the Jarl, one hand lazily draped about the waist of a woman, the other cradling a goblet of wine.

                The Breton man tensed, as the Jarl’s housecarl called for the guards, one hand like steel around the man’s bicep so he wouldn’t run.

                So much fear.

                “I for one would like to hear what this man has to say.”

                His own voice was almost a stranger to him as Ulfric finally spoke, his shoulders squared and feet set as he stood at the entrance of the Jarl’s hall, Galmar over his shoulder and his guards further back, jaw tight and he trained stillness of his hands that wanted to curl into fists at his sides.

                Jarl Thongvor Silver-Blood adjusted his posture with post-haste, the woman who was entertaining him quickly bolting off the arm of the stone throne and straightening her clothes as the man he himself had put in power cleared his throat. “Jarl Ulfric, I wasn’t expecting you.”

                Blue eyes settled on the Reachman who stood frozen in the housecarl’s iron grip, a hard swallow, and Ulfric gave a slight nod to him. “Tell me. What is this all about?”

                The housecarl’s hand tightened subtly when the Breton opened his mouth, urging silence as Thongvor stated “This man is an agent of the Forsworn, claiming-”

                “I did not ask for your interpretation,” Ulfric cut the other Nord off, so sharp that the entire room went silent. “I ask this man to speak for himself.” Grey eyes met sea blue for several long, tense breaths before Ulfric glanced away and back to the brown of the Breton. “If you will.”

                The housecarl, Yngvar, slowly released the man’s forearm, the impression of his grip lingering in the Breton’s clothes as he stood a little straighter for the audience he now held.

                “My name is Ainethach, I own Sanuarach Mine and the land that Karthwasten is settled on,” he began after one anxious throat-clear, “My family has owned that land for generations, not that it does me any good. If I’m not being harassed by the Forsworn, I’m dealing with Silver-Blood mercenaries trying to force me off it.”

                “Pure speculation,” Thongvor muttered.

                “I’m just a man who wants to live and raise my children the same place I was raised, sir. Is it that much to ask for a bit of peace?”

                Ulfric regarded the man carefully, calmly.

                It wasn’t much to ask at all.

                “You said the mercenaries were hired by the Silver-Blood family.”

                “Aye, sir, I did. I’m not the only one who’s been approached by their men, either,” he added in a hurry, “nearly everyone who has has either sold their property to them or has been arrested!”

                Just like Thongvor seemed to be about to do seconds before his own arrival…

                Ulfric had been vaguely aware of the influencial family’s holdings within the Reach, half as far as he had last been concerned, but he wondered if it was truly that saturated with blood as the city streets had always been whispered to be.

                The thought made the cold stone of anxiety in his stomach grow a little heavier.

                Talos help him, if it was true, then it was Ulfric’s fault that the city had only grown more bloody.

                Steadying himself, Ulfric turned his gaze to the other Jarl.

                “Is this true? Mercenaries?”

                Thongvor huffed with a quick swallow of wine, unprofessional and dismissive, “something to ask my brother. It’s not my responsibility or doing.”

                Ulfric’s brows rose.

                “As Jarl, all matters in the Hold are your responsibility. Your disinterest in the wellbeing of your own people is concerning,” he stated, annoyed.

                “He’s a Reachman.”

                “He’s a man of _Skyrim_ ,” Ulfric corrected coldly, “and unless you or your brother have _proof_ of him as Forsworn, it is my _advice_ to you, as one Jarl to another, to leave him, his family, and his land in peace.” And without another word, the Jarl of Windhelm turned on his heel and strode out of the Keep, a wave of hot anger settling in the place of that cold fear as his feet carried him down the Riverside path of the city, every guard straightening in surprise as he approached Cidhna Mine, the prison that reaked of familiar silver and blood so throngly that it still made a cold sweat break out over his skin even nearly thirty years after his escape in the wake of his own father’s death.

                Not a single guard stopped him as he ordered them to let him seel the mine, each and every one scrambling before him, and he paused at the last gate.

                That was as far as he was willing to go.

                But it was as far as he needed to go in order to see what he needed to see.

                The horror of the results of his own actions replaced the anger at Thongvor as he counted five children no older than ten among at least two dozen Bretons and Reachmen huddled in the dimly lit mine, men and women alike with faces thin with starvation.

                One silver-cart held not ore but two dead bodies, rotting with neglect.

                “How often are these people fed?” Ulfric breathed.

                “Excuse me?”

                “How often are they given food?”

                Ulfric turned his gaze on one of the guards, a young man barely able to fill out his armor who tensed under his full attention.

                “I- uh- at least once a day, sir.”

                Not one person in there should look that way if that was the truth and with an accusing jab through the bars of the gate, he angrily pointed that out to the man.

                “Not _one_ ,” he repeated to emphasize his point. “This may be a prison but this amount of neglect is inexcusable.”

                “Ulfric,” Galmar murmured.

                “I want every person in that mine fed. Daily. If I have to have one of my own men posted here to make sure of it, so be it. I will not have my people _abused_ like this,” Ulfric snapped at his own housecarl, rage settling in.

                Thongvor Silver-Blood was an _insult_ among Jarls, ignorant and egotistic and although he could do little in the way to buy the freedom of these people, not while he had to wait now for Emperor Titus Mede II’s response, he could at least ensure the comfort of innocent people until he could. He was not High King yet.

                But when he did become High King, he swore to himself he would right these wrongs of his own making, staring with Markarth.

                Not even the ruins of Winterhold held the same suffering as the people of the Reach under their Jarl’s reign.

                The guards were in quick order to respond to Ulfric’s demand, day-old bread and buckets of fresh water from the waterfall rather than the river, even quickly-growing leeks were brought down to the prison where Ulfric watched with all the focus of a raptor as every imprisoned man, woman, and child was given their share, each one setting in on their meal with ravenous hunger.

                It was barely anything at all, but Ulfric saw the relief in the eyes of those people as they looked at him through the bars and saw his anger at their situation.

                They saw him. And they knew he saw them too.

                Before he even made way for the city gate, he had Galmar stop a courier to run a message to Markarth’s Stormcloak camp to send a couple of spare loyal men to Markarth, with his own orders for the care of the prison, and a few sharper words to Thongvor himself.

                But what efforts he put into place did little for the Breton man who he had defended, Ainethach, who the Jarl’s party discovered dead halfway around the bend of the city.

                Beaten to death maybe not even an hour after Ulfric had last seen him.

                Anger and sorror laid heavy on his heart as they rode the long way back to Karthspire Mountain, pausing in Karthwasten to deliver the man’s body to his family, the pins and needles in his backside a small matter compared to the guilt that loomed in his mind as darkness swept in and his party swapped their borrowed horses to return home, only as much money as he had carried going entirely to the man’s mourning family.

                He felt guilty.

                And as the pounding of his horse’s hooves drove a rhythm in his chest, he was grateful for the silence and the two moons as the Bear of Markarth regretted so so much, Skyrim’s icy winds freezing hot tears to his cheeks.

                No one expected to stop within hours, least of all not for the Jarl to be sick, but they waited on the edge of Falkreath’s territory with Laronen’s hands chilled with frost magic gently pressed over his jugular veins, cooling his blood as Ulfric regained his breath and what little control he understood he still had.

                He just had to make it home.

                And when familiar candlelight eyes finally settled on him in the same breath that followed the great doors of the Palace of Kings making way for him, he found he could say nothing under the at concerned gaze.

                Nothing at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can you tell Thongvor Silver-Blood is my least favorite Jarl?


	42. Chapter Fourty-One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just FYI, this is also posted on my Fanfiction account too. Same name, same story. Enjoy. And don't forget to comment please.

                Gaunt faces loomed and stretched between the bars of the gate, skeletal-thin limbs reaching and grasping for him, tearing and pulling at the iron that separated him from them, the shallow wall of the cell only growing shallower, pushing him closer and closer to gnashing teeth.

                He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move, couldn’t do _anything_ as they tore at his clothes as they came within reach as the cell’s back inched closer.

                Ulfric could smell their putrid breath, the faint sweetness of rotting fruit and sour of rotting flesh.

                “No!”

                He woke with a start, the blankets clinging to him with sweat.

                And a pair of amber eyes gazing at him with surprise.

                Loriel’s wrist held in a bruising grasp.

                Ulfric jerked back, away from his love, releasing the limb and he tried to find his ground, tried to breathe, tried to calm down.

                An angry buzz in his head wouldn’t allow any cognative thought settle, not with the rushing of blood in his ears, the numbness of his face and hands and the ache in his chest, the tension in his shoulders and neck, entire body feeling tightly wound like a spring ready to snap under the pressure.

                He couldn’t breathe-

                He couldn’t-

                He couldn’t find ground.

                “I’m here,” a soft tone registered among the scattered thoughts.

                The only thing clear.

                The only thing he recognized.

                Loriel.

                “I’m here.”

                Loriel was there.

                He was there in his room, eyes softly glowing like candlelight in the darkness.

                Like a distant lighthouse, welcoming a ship home.

                Loriel didn’t reach for him though.

                He waited.

                He waited for Ulfric to _show_ him what he wanted.

                Even if Ulfric didn’t know what he wanted.

                But he reached for Loriel anyway.

                It wasn’t perfect, _he_ wasn’t perfect, but he could feel the way Loriel shifted to make room for him, to allow Ulfric to tuck himself against the elf, head drooped to his shoulder, face hidden against his throat, arms around him and him in his arms.

                Soft.

                Warm.

                Safe.

                And best of all, _there_.

                Ulfric felt the softest kisses be pressed to his hair, hands strong from sword and bow and guitar alike soothingly stroking over his back, occasionally pausing to trace designs and shapes into the muscles of his spine and shoulders, the faint scent of dragon’s tongue soap just as calming as the familiar tune that faintly buzzed within Loriel’s throat.

                Even when feeling replaced the numbness, and his tears dried, and breath filled his lungs again, and his heart no longer raced, they lingered, holding each other close like a lifeline.

                The only thing keeping their heads above water.

                A shallow sniff and Ulfric gently fingered the fabric of Loriel’s shirt, a deep breath rattling in his chest.

                “Markarth is a place of horrors,” his voice croaked.

                Loriel’s soft stroked paused only momentarily before they began again.

                “Tell me what you saw.”

                Loriel had heard that afternoon after they returned that Ulfric had paid visit to the city since they were in the Hold, Galmar running his mouth while Ulfric had done everything he could in the hours between stepping foot back inside his home and crawling into his own bed to stay busy, to stay distracted, to keep from thinking about it but at the same time it was all he could think of as he issued new orders to take place within the Reach.

                Ulfric did all he could even before he would allow himself to rest and even in his dreams, it wasn’t enough.

                Innocent people were still starving in a place that had been neglected for far too long.

                In a city that should have never been handed over to a man like Thongvor Silver-Blood.

                Loriel listened patiently as Ulfric relayed the gloom and fear and hatred of the city, the disinterest the Jarl held for the wellbeing of his people, the hungry faces of innocent men, women, and children locked in the silver mine, the body of a Breton that Ulfric escorted home and watched with a hollow heart as the man’s family mourned and could do nothing but give them money and tell them he was sorry.

                He listened as Ulfric told him every single step he had taken to try to rectify the situation, from defending Ainethach to ordering food be brought to the prisoners, to assigning one of his own soldiers to oversee the situation, to demanding the investigation of the Silver-Blood clan’s activities, for the lands they’ve purchased and lands that suddenly lost their landlords to their Mine or supposedly random death. All of it to be listed and logged so he could know the crimes of Thongvor Silver-Blood and his kin and handle it appropriately, as soon as he could.

                He had to become king.

                And even if he didn’t, he could still give that information to the person who would become ruler of Skyrim so that they might handle it.

                _Divines_ did he pray something would be done.

                For the people.

                But the people would still suffer, the longer that this all took.

                It was killing him that he was stuck sitting on his hands when his people were _suffering_.

                “One day, stories will be written about you.”

                The very _idea_ was terrifying, a hoarse laugh shaking in his chest as he pulled back slightly.

                “There already are, Loriel. I’m the villain.”

                A soft breath and Loriel shook his head before pressing his lips to the Jarl’s forehead, thumbs stroking over his cheeks.

                “Those books aren’t stories. They’re opinions. Stories will be written about you. Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak, hero, adventurer, savior of the people.”

                “I’ve _failed_ the people, Loriel. I’m failing them right now!”

                “That’s not your fault. That one’s on me. Markarth for Riften, remember?”

                “But _I_ made that demand.”

                “And I approved it. Neither of us knew it would turn out this badly with Thongvor. We couldn’t have known. But we can make this better. _You_ can make this better,” Loriel promised, making Ulfric meet his eyes with the gentlest nudge of nose against nose. “Don’t you know? The best heroes are the ones who try their damnedest, even if they fail sometimes. Even if they make a lot of mistakes. Their stories aren’t over. And neither is yours. Your story is just beginning.”

                He said it… so _easily_.

                Like he knew for sure.

                With confidence, Loriel knew.

                And he said it like a promise.

                Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath, feeling Loriel take one with him, and together they breathed, just breathed, relaxing the muscles in his neck and shoulders and arms and back one by one by one until it no longer hurt so much to merely exist.

                A thought murmured in his mind and it made him wonder.

                And Ulfric gently twined his fingers with Loriel’s, grateful for the contact.

                “Is there anything you might be able to do? To help Markarth?”

                It was worth a chance to simply ask.

                The Altmer took a thoughtful breath, eyes tracing over his face. “I have a contact in the Rift. I’ll speak with them when we’re there for Laronen’s wedding,” he promised.

                He squeezed those long slim fingers with relief.

                “Thank you.”

                A soft smile and Loriel leaned forward, pressing a soft kiss to his lips.

                “We’ll make this right,” he promised.

                And Ulfric nodded.

                They would.

                They had to.

                For long, quiet minutes, they stayed there, close, calming, until Loriel sighed.

                And their eyes met again.

                “I should go back to my room before Galmar slinks back in from the tavern,” he murmured softly.

                So that was why Loriel came instead of his housecarl in response to his night terror.

                “I wish you could stay.”

                “I wish I could too.”

                The Altmer pressed more kisses to his lips, kisses Ulfric relished in before he felt a warm circlet of metal be pressed in his hand, feeling the familiar twists of Loriel’s armband, back in his possession as he slowly slid it back onto his wrist and then reluctantly let Loriel go.

                He watched Loriel quietly pad over to the door, look back with one last soft smile, and cast a spell that rendered him invisible, the crafty elf, before the door opened and then quietly closed after the figure.

                Leaving him alone once more to the darkness of his own room.

                For a long time, Ulfric sat there in his bed, anxiety rising again in his chest before he pulled himself free from the sheets and mozied about the room listlessly, stoking the fire, straightening his desk, stripping his bed and then remaking it, absent, nervous, something, _anything_ to help settle the frenetic energy that buzzed in his chest.

                Anything to avoid just _stopping_.

                Eventually though, there was nothing left that he could do in his room.

                He didn’t stop though.

                The Jarl listlessly wandered the palace, reread reports, gazed over the war table’s map, and in the early hours when the cooks were starting to make noise in the kitchen, when Ulfric’s eyes were finally heavy and his mind felt sluggish, he crawled back into his own bed.

                And with shaky success, he slept.

                It took two days for the nervous energy to finally dissipate from Ulfric to the point that he could meditate without anxiety rising up in his chest from the stillness.

                Two days of Loriel sneaking into his room in the depth of the night for the two of them to just take some time to breathe.

                Two days was long enough for the effect of Markarth to wear off.

                And yet, all it took was one more day for it to return with a vengeance.

                With Commander Maro striding through his great hall as Ulfric came down for breakfast.

                No notice, no warning, nothing.

                The look on his face though…

                “He’s dead,” Maro snapped at him, eyes bloodshot with grief as he stood in front of the Jarl, soaked with rain that disguised his tears. “My son is dead.”

                Ulfric felt his heart still in his chest, unguarded as his expression fell with the news.

                Maro’s bared teeth gritted in his distress, throat tight as he choked out, “he was killed in Markarth. You were there that day, he wrote he saw you there, speaking to the Jarl. That was his last message. He was supposed to leave in the morning. He never got the chance to. He’s dead. He’s _dead_ , and I want answers!”

                In the man’s frantic statements, he pulled something out from his cloak, Galmar tensing behind him only for Ulfric to motion him to be still, the crushed paper in Commander Maro’s hand shoved at him.

                As though Ulfric would be able to make any answers suddenly appear for Maro.

                And perhaps he would.

                Stiffly, he took the letter and smoothed it out on the edge of the table, his thoughts scattered back to the situation of Markarth’s state.

                He would have thought the Silver-Bloods were above such an action if he had not found the Breton’s body, but he did not believe that Thongvor would be so reckless as to anger the commander of the Penitus Oculatus himself by having his son murdered.

                And his blood chilled as he read the note.

                So soon after the potential of an alliance being made and this, this scrap of paper could easily ruin all of Loriel and Laronen and half the continent’s hard work to achieve peace.

                He couldn’t-

                Ulfric sucked in a noisey breath between his teeth, throat tight with anxiety as he looked back to Maro.

                “He-”

                Maro cut him off before he could say anything.

                “It’s not his hand.”

                That stilled him.

                “It’s not his writing. That wasn’t written by him. Whoever… Whoever wrote that is framing my _son_. _Disgracing_ him.”

                A loud meow alerted both men that this meeting was no longer so exclusive and Maro bristled as Loriel stepped into the Great Hall, Baby neatly balanced on his shoulders, golden eyes and amber ones alike fixated on the two men.

                Commander Maro didn’t waste an opportunity like the one that just presented itself to him to immediately question Loriel, accusing him so readily of slinking around in the shadows and demanding much the same as he had demanded of Ulfric, to be given answers that he might not have.

                Ulfric stepped between the two before Maro could say more.

                “Maro, take a breath,” he reasoned before he gazed back at Loriel.

                Baby jumped off Loriel’s shoulder and to the ground, eager for his own breakfast and Loriel’s gaze fell to the crumpled letter in his hand.

                And Ulfric offered it to him.

                It took a lot less time than he thought for Loriel to have a reaction, to observe the parlor in Loriel’s skin to go pale and swallow thickly.

                “Its not his hand, that wasn’t written by my son!” Maro told him too.

                “I know it’s not,” Loriel said grimly, slowly folding the letter.

                And then handing it back to the Imperial.

                “I recognize that hand though.”

                That was an answer neither expected, a startled breath drawing from Maro, perhaps more than he could have hoped for in the wake of his loss.

                A lead he didn’t have before.

                “I’m a bard, Maro. I study music, literature, and history, and I am _very_ good with handwriting, only Headmaster Viarmo and Dean Giraud Gemane can school me on it. But that? That was written by someone in the Dark Brotherhood. I’ve pulled instructions off of one of their corpses. Same hand. That’s who you want.”

                Maro’s slack jaw went tense for a moment.

                “How would- nevermind. I forget the Ambassador’s still seething over you,” he breathed, brows furrowed before he looked back at the letter in his hand.

                A breath and he frowned.

                “Maro, think about it,” Loriel added, “the Dark Brotherhood’s going downhill, its reputation is dwindling with every one of their sanctuaries that have been destroyed. An assassination on the emperor? That’d be big enough to make people actually _afraid_ of them again. And someone stupid enough to order an assassination on the emperor? That means that they aren’t the only ones with something to gain.”

                The addition wasn’t necessarily an entirely good one in their favor.

                Even Ulfric stood to gain something if the Emperor was murdered, if that was what he wanted, but it wasn’t.

                Maro didn’t know that though.

                Lips going thin, Maro might have been thinking the same thing.

                And after a long moment, he let out a short breath and nodded.

                And without a single word, Maro stepped back from them, turned, and marched out of the Great Hall, back straight and shoulders squared.

                Whatever was on that man’s mind now, he was very sure of it.

                And in the days that followed after, word eventually traveled to Windhelm of a fire down in Falkreath.

                And with sunrise on the day of Laronen’s wedding, the rumor was confirmed at last.

                The Penitus Oculatus had laid an assault on the Dark Brotherhood.

                Loriel and his brother would never fear of death from them ever again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, guys, just FYI, I'll be updating Frost and Fire's first chapter (cuz I'm unhappy with it) and so it will finally be parallel with this story. So, just keep an eye out for that! Love you! Looking forward to hearing from ya'll.


End file.
